The poem “House by the Road” is a story about the fate of a peasant family. Analysis of “House by the Road” Tvardovsky Images of the heroes of the poem House by the Road
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Alexander Tvardovsky
HOUSE BY THE ROAD
Lyrical chronicle
CHAPTER 1
I started the song in a difficult year,
When it's cold in winter
The war was at the gates
Capitals under siege.But I was with you, soldier,
Always with you -
Before and since that winter in a row
In one wartime period.I only lived by your fate
And he sang it to this day,
And I put this song aside
Interrupting halfway through.And how could you not return?
From the war to his soldier wife,
So I couldn't
All this time
Return to that notebook.But as you remembered during the war
About what is dear to the heart,
So the song, starting in me,
She lived, seethed, ached.And I kept it inside me,
I read about the future
And the pain and joy of these lines
Hiding others between the lines.I carried her and took her with me
From the walls of my native capital -
Following you
Following you -
All the way abroad.From border to border -
At every new place
The soul waited with hope
Some kind of meeting, conduct...And wherever you go
What kind of houses have thresholds,
I never forgot
About a house by the road,About the house of sorrows, by you
Once abandoned.
And now on the way, in a foreign country
I came across a soldier's house.That house without a roof, without a corner,
Warm in a residential way,
Your mistress took care
Thousands of miles from home.She pulled somehow
Along the highway track -
With the smaller one, asleep in my arms,
And the whole family crowd.The rivers boiled under the ice,
The streams churned up foam,
It was spring and your house was walking
Home from captivity.He walked back to the Smolensk region,
Why was it so far away...
And every soldier's look
I felt warm at this meeting.And how could you not wave
Hand: “Be alive!”
Don't turn around, don't breathe
About many things, service friend.At least about the fact that not everything
Of those who lost their home,
On your frontline highway
They met him.You yourself, walking in that country
With hope and anxiety,
I didn’t meet him in the war, -
He walked the other way.But your house is assembled, it is obvious.
Build walls against it
Add a canopy and porch -
And it will be an excellent house.I'm willing to put my hands to it -
And the garden, as before, at home
Looks through the windows.
Live and live
Ah, to live and live for the living!And I would sing about that life,
About how it smells again
At a construction site with gold shavings,
Live pine resin.How, after announcing the end of the war
And longevity to the world,
A starling refugee has arrived
To a new apartment.How greedily the grass grows
Thick on the graves.
The grass is right
And life is alive
But I want to talk about this first,
What I can’t forget about.So the memory of grief is great,
Dull memory of pain.
It won't stop until
He won’t speak out to his heart’s content.And at the very noon of the celebration,
For the holiday of rebirth
She comes like a widow
A soldier who fell in battle.Like a mother, like a son, day after day
I waited in vain since the war,
And forget about him again,
And don't mourn all the time
Not domineering.May they forgive me
That again I'm before the deadline
I'll be back, comrades,
To that cruel memory.And everything that is expressed here
Let it penetrate into the soul again,
Like a cry for the homeland, like a song
Her fate is harsh.
CHAPTER 2
At that very hour on Sunday afternoon,
On a festive occasion,
In the garden you mowed under the window
Grass with white dew.The grass was kinder than the grass -
Peas, wild clover,
Dense panicle of wheatgrass
And strawberry leaves.And you mowed her down, sniffling,
Groaning, sighing sweetly.
And I overheard myself
When the shovel rang:Mow, scythe,
While there is dew,
Down with the dew -
And we're home.This is the covenant and this is the sound,
And along the braid along the sting,
Washing away the little petals,
The dew ran like a stream.The mowing is high, like a bed,
Lay down, fluffed up,
And a wet, sleepy bumblebee
While mowing he sang barely audibly.And with a soft swing it’s hard
The scythe creaked in his hands.
And the sun burned
And things went on
And everything seemed to sing:Mow, scythe,
While there is dew,
Down with the dew -
And we're home.And the front garden under the window,
And the garden, and the onions on the ridges -
All this together was a home,
Housing, comfort, order.Not the order and comfort
That, without trusting anyone,
They serve water to drink,
Holding onto the door latch.And that order and comfort,
What to everyone with love
It's like they're serving a glass
To good health.The washed floor shines in the house
Such neatness
What a joy for him
Step barefoot.And it’s good to sit down at your table
In a close and dear circle,
And, while resting, eat your bread,
And it’s a wonderful day to praise.That truly is the day of the best days,
When suddenly for some reason we -
The food tastes better
My wife is nicer
And the work is more fun.Mow, scythe,
While there is dew,
Down with the dew -
And we're home.
Your wife was waiting for you home,
When with merciless force
War in an ancient voice
There was a howl all over the country.And, leaning on the scythe,
Barefoot, bare-haired,
You stood there and understood everything,
And I didn’t get to the swath.The owner of the meadow does not bother,
I belted myself on a hike,
And in that garden there is still the same sound
It was as if it was being heard:Mow, scythe,
While there is dew,
Down with the dew -
And we're home.And you were, maybe already
Forgotten by the war itself,
And on the unknown frontier
Buried by another earth.Without stopping, the same sound
The pinching sound of a shoulder blade,
In work, in sleep, my hearing was disturbed
To your soldier wife.He burned her heart out
An unquenchable longing,
When I mowed that meadow
The scythe itself is unbeaten.Tears blinded her eyes,
Pity burned my soul.
Not that braid
Not the same dew
Wrong grass, it seemed...Let women's grief pass,
Your wife will forget you
And maybe she’ll get married
And he will live like people.But about you and about myself,
About a long-ago day of separation
She is in any destiny
Sighs at this sound:Mow, scythe,
While there is dew,
Down with the dew -
And we're home.
CHAPTER 3
Not here yet, still far away
From these fields and streets
The unfed herds walked
And the refugees kept coming.But she walked, sounded like an alarm bell,
Trouble all over the area.
Shovels took hold of the cuttings,
Women's hands for the cars.We were ready day and night
Dig with feminine tenacity,
To help the troops with something
At the Smolensk border.So that at least in my native land,
At your doorstep
At least for a short period of war
Dig up the road.And you can’t count how many hands! -
Along that long ditch
Rye was rolled alive
Raw heavy clay.Live bread, live grass
They pulled up themselves.A He bombs on Moscow
Carried it over our heads.They dug a ditch, laid down a shaft,
They were in a hurry, as if they were on time.A He I've already walked on the ground,
It thundered nearby.Broke and confused front and rear
From sea to sea,
It shone with a bloody glow,
Closing dawns in the night.And the terrible power of the storm,
During the honeymoon period,
In the smoke, in the dust in front of you
He drove the wheels from the front.And so much suddenly fell out
Lots, carts, three-tons,
Horses, carts, children, old women,
Knots, rags, knapsack...My great country
At that bloody date
How were you still poor?
And how rich she is already!The green street of the village,
Where the dust lay in powder,
A huge region was driven by war
With a hastily taken burden.Confusion, hubbub, heavy groan
Human suffering is hot.
And a child's cry, and a gramophone,
Singing, as if in a dacha, -
Everything is mixed up, one misfortune -
The sign of war was...Already before noon water
There weren't enough wells.And the buckets dully scraped the soil,
Rattling against the walls of the log house,
Half empty they went up,
And to the drop that jumped in the dust,
The lips stretched out greedily.And how many were there alone -
From the heat it’s completely nighting -
Curly, cropped, linen,
Dark-haired, fair-haired and others
Baby heads.No, don't come out to watch
Guys at a watering hole.
Hurry up and hug yours to your chest,
While they are with you.While with you
Dear family,
Even if they are not in the hall,
In any need
In your nest -
Another enviable share.And be led down the bitter path
Change your yard -
Dress the children yourself, put them on shoes -
Believe me, it’s still half a pain.And, having gotten used to it, after all
Wander through the road crowd
With the smaller one, asleep in my arms,
With two with a skirt - you can!Walk, wander,
Sit down on the way
Small family vacation.
Yes who now
Happier than you!Look, there probably is.
Where the light shines at least at the edge of the day,
Where it's completely covered in clouds.
And happiness is no match for happiness,
And grief - grief is the difference.The wagon-house crawls and creaks,
And the heads of the children
Cunningly covered with a flap
Iron red roof.And serves as a track roof
To a family persecuted by war,
That roof that's above your head
I was in my native land.In another land
Kibitka-house,
Her comfort is gypsy
Not somehow
Set on the road, -
A peasant man's hand.Overnight on the way, the guys are sleeping,
Buried deep in the wagon.
And they look into the starry sky
Shafts like anti-aircraft guns.The owner does not sleep by the fire.
In this difficult world
He is for children and for horses,
And I am responsible for my wife.And to her, be it summer or winter,
Still, there is no easier way.
And you decide everything yourself,
With your mind and strength.In the midday heat
And in the rain at night
Cover the kids on the road.
My distant one
My dear,
Alive or dead - where are you?..No, not a wife, not even a mother,
What did you think about your son?
We couldn't guess
Everything that will happen now.Where was it in the old days, -
Everything is different now:
The owner went to war,
The war is coming home.And, sensing death, this house
And the garden is alarmingly silent.
And the front - here it is - is behind the hill
Sighs hopelessly.And the dusty troops retreat, rollback
Not the same as in the beginning.
And where the columns are somehow,
Where the crowds marched.All to the east, back, back,
The guns are getting closer and closer.
And the women howl and hang
On the fence with your chest.The last hour has come,
And there is no longer a reprieve.
- Who are you looking at, only us?
Are you throwing it away, sons?..And that, perhaps, is not a reproach,
And there is pain and pity for them.
And there's a pressing lump in my throat
For everything that has happened to life.And a woman's heart is doubly so
Melancholy, anxiety gnaws,
What is yours only there, in the fire,
My wife can imagine.In fire, in battle, in smoke
Bloody hand-to-hand combat.
And how it must be for him there,
Living, death is scary.Wouldn't that misfortune have told me
That she howled like a woman,
I wouldn't know, maybe never
That I loved you to death.I loved you - don’t drop your gaze
No one, only one loved.
I loved you so much that from my relatives,
I got it from my mother.Let it not be girl time,
But love is amazing -
Sharp in speech,
Quick in business
She walked like a snake.In the house - no matter how you live -
Kids, stove, trough -
He hasn't seen her yet
Uncombed, unwashed.And she kept the whole house
In anxious tidiness,
Considering, perhaps, that on that
Love is forever more reliable.And that love was strong
With such a powerful force,
What one war can tear apart
She could.
And separated.
CHAPTER 4
If only you would languish the fighter,
War, sadly familiar,
Yes, I wouldn’t gather dust on the porch
His home.I would crush it with a heavy wheel
Those that are on your list
I wouldn’t ruin a child’s sleep
Artillery fire.Rattling, I would rage drunk
At its limit, -
And then it would be you, war,
Still a sacred thing.But you kicked the guys out
To the cellars, to the cellars,
You are from heaven to earth at random
You throw your own pigs.And people of the bitter side
They huddled close together at the front,
Fearing both death and guilt
Some unknown.And you are getting closer to the yard,
And children, sensing grief.
A timid whisper of a game
They lead you in the corner without arguing...On that first day of bitter days,
How did you get ready for the journey?
The father ordered to take care of the children,
Watch the house strictly.He told me to take care of the children and the house, -
The wife is responsible for everything.
But he didn’t say whether to light the stove
Today at dawn.But he didn’t say whether to sit here,
Should I run into the light somewhere?
Give up everything suddenly.
Where are they waiting for us?
Where do they ask?
The world is not a home.There's a ceiling above your head,
Here is a house, in a barn there is a cow...
But the German, maybe he’s different
And not so harsh, -
It will pass, blowjob.What if not?
He is not famous for that kind of glory.
Well, then you're in the village council
Are you going to look for council?What kind of judgment will you threaten him with?
As he stands on the threshold,
How will he enter the house?
No, if only the house
Away from the road......The last four soldiers
The gate to the garden was opened,
Iron forged shovels
They grunted tiredly and out of tune.
We sat down and lit a cigarette.And smiled, turn
To the hostess, the eldest is like:
- We want you to have a cannon here
Place it in the garden.Said as if a man
Traveler, stranger,
I asked for an overnight stay with my horse,
With a cart near the house.He receives both affection and greetings.
- Just don’t leave,
Don't leave us...
- Not really, -
They looked at each other bitterly.- No, from this hemp
We won't leave, mom.
Then, so that everyone can leave, -
This is our service.The earth around is on a wave,
And the day was deafened by thunder.
- This is life: a master in war,
And you, it turns out, are at home.And she’s ready about everyone
One sad question:
– Sivtsov is a surname. Sivtsov.
Have you heard by any chance?- Sivtsov? Wait, let me think.
Well, yes, I heard Sivtsov.
Sivtsov - well, Nikolai,
So he is alive and healthy.
Not yours? Yeah, what about your Andrey?
Andrey, please tell me...But somehow dear to her
And that namesake.- Well, friends, stop smoking.
Marked the plan with a shovel
And he began to diligently dig the ground
A soldier in a soldier's garden.Not to grow up there
Any thing
And not on purpose, not out of malice,
And as science says.
He dug a trench, shaped so that
And the depth and the parapet...Oh, how much digging there is in that one
Submissive to the cause of sadness.He did the work - he dug the earth,
But maybe I thought briefly
And maybe he even said
Sighed:
- Earth, land...They are already chest-deep in the ground,
The soldier is calling to the table,
As if to help in the family,
Lunch and rest are sweet.- You're tired, eat.
- Well,
Hot for now...– I must also admit, the soil is good,
And then it happens - a stone...And the eldest carried the spoon first,
And after him the soldiers.
- Was the collective farm rich?
- No, not to say rich,
Not like that, but still. Of bread
Stronger for Ugra...
- Look, the shooting has stopped.
- Three kids?
- Three...And a common sigh:
- Children are a problem. -
And the conversation is hesitant.
The food is fatty at the wrong time,
Sad as at a wake.- Thank you for lunch,
Hostess, thank you.
As for... well, no,
Don't wait, run somehow.“Wait,” said another soldier,
Looking out the window with alarm: -
Look, people are just back
Drip.
- For what?The dusty road is full,
They walk and wander dejectedly.
From east to west war
She turned the shafts.“It turns out he’s already ahead.”
- So what now, where to go?
- Shut up, mistress, and sit down.
What's next - the day will tell.
And we should guard your garden,
Mistress, things are bad,
It turns out it's our turn now
Look for moves from here.And out of dire need
Now they are soldiers
It seemed that women were weaker
And not guilty before her,
But still they are guilty.- Goodbye, mistress, wait, we'll come,
Our deadlines will come.
And we will find yours noticeable home
By the highway.
We’ll come, we’ll find it, maybe not;
War, you can’t guarantee.
Thanks again for lunch.- And thank you, brothers.
Farewell.-
She brought people out.
And with a hopeless request:
“Sivtsov,” she reminded, “Andrey,”
You might hear...She followed, holding the door,
In tears, and my heart sank,
As if with my husband only now
Goodbye forever.
It's like it got out of hand
And disappeared without looking back...And suddenly that sound came to life in my ears,
The pinching sound of a shoulder blade:Mow, scythe,
While there is dew,
Down with the dew -
And we're home...
CHAPTER 5
When to your home
He came in, rattling his gun,
Soldier of another land?Didn’t beat, didn’t torture and didn’t burn, -
Far from trouble.
He just entered the threshold
And asked for water.And, leaning over the ladle,
From the road all covered in dust,
He drank, dried himself and left
Soldier of a foreign land.Didn’t beat, didn’t torture and didn’t burn, -
Everything has its time and order.
But he entered, he could already
Enter, alien soldier.A foreign soldier has entered your house,
Where one could not enter.
Didn't you happen to be there?
And God forbid!You didn't happen to be there
When, drunk, bad,
Amusing yourself at your table
Soldier of another land?Sits, occupying that edge of the bench,
That corner is dear
Where is the husband, father, head of the family?
It was no one else who sat.May you not suffer an evil fate
Don't be old though
And not hunchbacked, not crooked
Behind grief and shame.And to the well through the village,
Where is there a foreign soldier,
Like crushed glass,
Walk back and forth.But if it was destined
All this, everything counts,
If you don't get at least one thing,
What else is there to do?You won't have to suffer for the war,
Wife, sister or mother,
Their
Alive
Soldier in captivity
See it with your own eyes....Sons of the native land,
Their shameful, prefabricated formation
They led along that land
To the west under escort.They walk along it
In shameful prefabricated companies,
Others without belts,
Others are without caps.Others with bitter, angry
And hopeless agony
They carry it in front of them
Arm in a sling...At least he can walk healthy,
So the task is to step -
Losing blood in the dust,
Drag while you walk.He, the warrior, was taken by force
And he’s angry that he’s still alive.
He is alive and happy,
That he suddenly fought back.He's worth nothing
Doesn't know the world yet.
And everyone goes, equal
There are four in a column.Boot for war
Some were not worn out,
And here they are in captivity,
And this captivity is in Russia.Drooping from the heat,
They move their legs.
Familiar yards
On the sides of the road.Well, house and garden
And there are signs all around.
A day or a year ago
Did you walk along this road?A year or just an hour
Passed without delay?..“Who are you looking at us for?”
Throw it away, sons!..”Now say it back
And meet your eyes with your eyes,
Like, we don’t throw, no,
Look, here we are.Make mothers happy
And the wives in their womanly sorrow.
Don't rush quickly
Pass the. Don't bend, don't stoop...Rows of soldiers wander
A gloomy line.
And women to everyone
They look into faces.Not a husband, not a son, not a brother
They pass in front of them
But only your soldier -
And there are no relatives.And how many of those rows
You silently walked
And shorn heads,
Drooping sadly.And suddenly - neither reality nor dream -
It sounded as if -
Between many voices
One:
- Goodbye, Anyuta...Darted to that end
Crowded in a hot crowd.
No, that's true. Fighter
Someone at randomHe called it in the crowd. Joker.
No one cares about jokes here.But if you're between them,
Call me Anyuta.Don't be ashamed of me
That the windings slid down,
What, maybe without a belt
And maybe without a cap.And I won't reproach
You, who are under escort
You're going. And for the war
Alive, did not become a hero.Call me and I’ll answer.
I am yours, your Anyuta.
I'll break through to you
At least I'll say goodbye again forever
With you. My minute!But how to ask now,
Say a word:
Don't you have it here?
In captivity, him, Sivtsov
Andrey?The shame is bitter.
Ask him, maybe he
And the dead will not forgive,
That I was looking for him here.But if he is here, suddenly
Walks in a sultry column,
Closing my eyes...
- Tsuryuk!
Tsuryuk! - the guard shouts.He doesn't care about anything
And there’s no business, really,
And his voice
Like a crow, burr:- Tsuryuk! -
He's not young
Tired, damn hot
Pissed off as hell
I don’t even feel sorry for myself...Rows of soldiers wander
A gloomy line.
And women to everyone
They look into faces.Eyes across
And along the column they catch.
And with something a knot,
Whatever the piece is
Many are ready.Not a husband, not a son, not a brother,
Take what you have, soldier,
Nod, say something
Like, that gift is holy
And dear, they say. Thank you.Gave from kind hands,
For everything that suddenly happened,
I didn’t ask the soldier.
Thank you, bitter friend,
Thank you, Mother Russia.And you, soldier, walk
And don’t complain about misfortune;
She has an end somewhere,
It can't be that there isn't.Let the dust smell like ash,
Fields - burnt bread
And over my native land
An alien sky hangs.And the pitiful crying of the boys,
It continues unabated,
And women to everyone
Looking into faces...No, mother, sister, wife
And everyone who has experienced pain,
That pain is not avenged
And she didn’t come out victorious.For this day one
In a village in Smolensk -
Berlin did not repay
With your universal shame.The memory is petrified
Strong by itself.Let the stone be a stone,
May pain be pain.
CHAPTER 6
It was not the right time yet
Which goes straight into winter.
More potato skins
Cleaned off on the basket.But it was getting cold
Summer heating earth.
And at night a wet shock
She let me in unfriendly.And by the fire there was a dream - not a dream.
Under the timid crack of dead wood
Autumn squeezed out of the forests
Those bitter days of the night shelter.Manila with the memory of housing,
Warmth, food and more.
Who's son-in-law?
Who to marry? -
I thought about where I would have to go....In cold Pune, against the wall,
Stealthily from prying eyes,
Sat behind the war
A soldier with his soldier wife.In cold pune, not in the house,
A soldier to match a stranger,
He drank what she brought him
My wife sneaks out of the house.I drank with grief-stricken zeal,
Taking the pot into his lap.
His wife sat in front of him
On that cold hay,
That in the ancient hour on a Sunday afternoon,
On holiday business
In the garden he mowed under the window,
When the war came.The hostess looks: he is not him
For a guest in this pune.
No wonder, apparently, a bad dream
She dreamed about it the day before.Thin, overgrown, as if all
Sprinkled with ash.
He ate so that maybe he could get something to eat
Your shame and evil grief.- Put together a pair of underwear
Yes, fresh foot wraps,
May I be fine until dawn
Remove from the parking lot.– I’ve already collected everything, my friend.
Everything is. And you're on the road
At least take care of your health,
And first of all, the legs.- And what else? You are wonderful
With such care, women.
Let's start with the head, -
At least save it.And on the soldier's face there is a shadow
Smiles of a stranger.
- Oh, as soon as I remember: only a day
You're the one at home.- At home!
I would also be glad to stay for a day, -
He sighed. - Take the dishes.
Thank you. Give me something to drink now.
When I return from the war, I will stay.And he drinks sweetly, dear, big,
Shoulders resting against the wall,
His beard is alien
Drops roll into the hay.- Yes, at home, they say the truth,
That the water is raw
Much tastier, said the soldier,
Wiping away in thought
Mustache fringed sleeves,
And he was silent for a minute. -
And the rumor is that Moscow
It's like...His wife moved towards him
With sympathetic anxiety.
Like, not everything is worth believing,
There's a lot of chatter these days.
And the German, maybe he is now
It will settle down by winter...And he again:
- Well, well, believe me
Whatever suits us.
One good captain
He wandered with me at first.
Another enemy on your heels
He was following us. Didn't sleep
We didn't eat on the way then.
Well, death. So he used to
He kept repeating: go, crawl, crawl -
At least to the Urals.
So the man was angry in spirit
And I remembered that idea.- And what?
- I walked and didn’t get there.
- Left behind?
- He died from his wound.
We walked through the swamp. And the rain, and the night,
And the cold is also bitter.
“And they couldn’t help you with anything?”
- And they couldn’t, Anyuta...Leaning face to his shoulder,
To the hand - a small girl,
She grabbed my sleeve
And she kept holding him,
It was as if she was thinking
Save it at least by force,
From whom one war can separate
She could, and she did.And took it from each other
On a Sunday in June.
And again briefly brought together
Under the roof of this puni.And here he is sitting next to her
Before another separation.
Isn't he angry with her?
For this shame and torment?Isn't he waiting for her to
His wife told him:
- Go crazy - go. Winter.
How far is it to the Urals?And I would repeat:
- Understand,
Who can blame the soldier?
Why is his wife and children here?
What is here is my home.
Look, your neighbor has come home
And it doesn’t come off the stove...And then he would say:
- No,
Wife, bad speeches...Perhaps it’s a bitter lot,
Like bread with a pinch of salt,
He wanted to spice it up, brighten it up
Such heroism, or what?Or maybe he's just tired
Yes, so that through force
I also came to my relatives' place,
And then it wasn’t enough.And only my conscience is out of tune
With bait - this thought:
I'm home. I won't go any further
Search the world for war.And it is not known what is truer,
And to grief - there is turmoil in the heart.
- Say something, Andrey.
- What can I say, Anyuta?
After all, say don’t say,
Wouldn't it be easier?
Filming until dawn tomorrow
And make our way to Vyazma?
An unwritten route
Recognize the stars.
Getting to the front is hard work,
You get there, and there is no rest.
One day there is as hard as a year,
What a day, sometimes a minute...
And he walked and didn’t get there,
But everything goes as if.
Weakened, wounded, he walks,
What is placed in a coffin is more beautiful.
It's coming.
“Comrades, go ahead.
We'll get there. Ours will come!
We'll get there, it won't happen otherwise,
We will reach our lines.
And fighting is inevitable.
What about rest?
In Berlin!"
At every falling step
And rising again
It's coming. How can I
Left behind, alive, healthy?
He and I walked through dozens of villages,
Where, how, where by death.
And once he walked, but didn’t get there,
So I have to get there.
Get there. Even though I'm a private
There is no way I can leave behind.
If only he were alive,
Otherwise he is a fallen warrior.
It is forbidden! Such are the things... -
And he stroked her hand.And she realized long ago
That the pain was not pain yet,
Separation is not separation.It doesn't matter - even if you lie down on the ground,
Even if you suddenly lose your breath...
I said goodbye before, but not like that
But when is farewell!I quietly took my hand away
And husband's knees
With a humble cry she hugged
On that sunken hay...And the night passed with them.
And suddenly
Through the edge of sleep at dawn,
Sound through the smell of hay into the soul
An old, bitter man came in to her:Mow, scythe,
While there is dew,
Down with the dew -
And we're home...
A.T. Tvardovsky began writing the poem “House by the Road” in 1942, returned to it again and finished it in 1946. This is a poem about fate peasant family, a small, modest part of the people, upon whom all the misfortunes and sorrows of the war fell. Having fought off his own, Andrei Sivtsov found himself behind enemy lines, near his own house, feeling tired from the hardships he had endured. All the more expensive is his decision to continue the path to the front, “to recognize the route not written by anyone in the stars.” Making this decision, Sivtsov feels “indebted” to his comrade who died on the way: And since he walked, but didn’t get there, So I have to get there. ... It would be good if he were alive, Otherwise he is a fallen warrior. Sivtsov’s misadventures were not at all uncommon at that time. The fate of his loved ones turned out to be the same common for many, many families 157: Anna and her children were taken to Germany, to a foreign land. And there is yet another “trouble on top of troubles” ahead: in captivity, in a convict camp, the Sivtsovs had a son, seemingly doomed to inevitable death.
Anna's mental conversation with her son belongs to the most heartfelt pages ever written by Tvardovsky. The maternal need to talk with someone who is still “mute and stupid”, the doubt about the ability to protect the child, and the passionate desire to survive for the sake of her son are conveyed here with deep sensitivity. And although this new human life is so destitute, its light is still so weak, there is so little hope of meeting its father, life emerges victorious from an unequal duel with death threatening it.
Returning home, Andrei Sivtsov knows nothing about the fate of his family. Finally, she presented another bitter paradox - it is not the wife and children who are waiting for the soldier to come home, but he is waiting for them. Tvardovsky is stingy with direct praise of the hero, once describing him as the type of “ascetic fighter who, year after year in a row, carried out the war to the end.” He does not embellish it at all, even in the most dramatic situations, for example, when leaving the encirclement: “thin, overgrown, as if covered with ash,” wiping his mustache with the “fringe of the sleeve” of his overcoat, frayed in his wanderings.
In the essay “In Native Places” (1946), telling how his fellow villager, like Andrei Sivtsov, built a house on the ashes, Tvardovsky wrote: “It seemed more and more natural to me to define the construction of this simple log cabin as some kind of feat. The feat of a simple worker, farmer and family man, who shed blood in the war for his native land and now on it, ruined and despondent during the years of his absence, beginning to start life all over again...”
In the poem, the author leaves it to the readers themselves to draw a similar conclusion, limiting themselves to a laconic description of the quiet feat of Andrei Sivtsov: I stayed for a day or two. - Well, thank you for that. - 158 literature And with a sore leg he dragged himself to the old seliba. I took a smoke break, took off my overcoat, and marked out the plan with a shovel. If you wait for your wife and children to come home, then you need to build a hut.
It is unknown whether the house built by the hero will wait for its owner, whether it will be filled with children's voices. The fate of the Sivtsovs is the fate of millions, and the ending of these dramatic stories is not the same. In one of his articles, Tvardovsky noted that many of the best works of Russian prose, “having arisen from living life... in their endings, they strive, as it were, to close in on the same reality, leaving the reader wide scope for mental continuation of them, for further thinking, “further research” human destinies, ideas and issues touched upon in them.”
As S. Marshak wrote, “the poem could only have been born during the years of great national disaster, which exposed life to its very foundation.” The defense and affirmation of this foundation, the most “original” (Yu. Burtin) in human life, constitutes the pathos of the poem. The main theme is combined with the second one - memory, continuity of personality and community of people; here it is both the memory of the grief of war, and the memory of the power of love and home, illuminating, overcoming the power of grief in any grief, in the most terrible road, crossing - the power of the primordial human, folk. And the theme of the road here also appears from two sides - both the original, one’s own road, near one’s home, and the road imposed by war and non-humans - from one’s own to someone else’s and back to one’s own. “In memory of grief”, “dull memory of pain”, will resonate with the last chapters of “Vasily Terkin” and with Tvardovsky’s lyrics recent years war. But the “dull memory of pain” again sharpens the clear memory of the family, as happiness, as love, as the sincere and fundamental principle of any individual home and all life on earth.
The center of the family, as always with Tvardovsky, is the mother. “House by the Road” is not only a lyrical chronicle, but also a lyrical anthem above all mother's love, in its entirety, specific strength. And to the peasant woman, as above all to the woman-mother. But at the same time, a woman is a housewife and a hard worker. And to a woman-wife, a friend of the worker-owner, and then a warrior who protects the home and family of the entire people. The love of a wife and mother is the same businesslike, active love, signs of which we saw in Tvardovsky’s lyrics of the 30s, but here it is no longer only a lyrical, but also a lyrical-epic world. This world is home, work. “Kay, braid, while there’s dew.” A house in the narrowest, cramped, personal, estate sense. “And the front garden under the window. // And the garden, and the onions in the beds - // All this together was a home, // Housing, comfort, order.” Three main signs, three qualities, along with that work, that mowing in the meadow near your house. But this personal beginning, even, I would say (as it is now visible in retrospect), the beginning of that certain personal property with which the rural roots of the young Tvardovsky were connected, this personal beginning of the house is opposed to a closed, proprietary house, where, “trusting no one , // They serve water to drink, // Holding onto the door strap.” No, it's man's house, included in a new type of broader human community, although at the same time traditional hospitality and artel. This is “that order and comfort, // That everyone is given with love, // As if they were serving a glass // For good health.” Two systems of behavioral details characteristic of Tvardovsky, playing the role of a direct image of this unique house by the road and even metaphorical, metonymic concreteness, even the symbol of the House by the Road in a new, expansive and common sense for all Tvardovsky’s poetry! Additional specific signs of the house and its mistress are also characteristic - a well-washed floor, a special businesslike and, as Tvardovsky put it, “anxious neatness” - a purely peasant trait. “And she kept the whole house // In anxious tidiness, // Considering, perhaps, that this // Love is forever more reliable.” Reliability of love is associated with homeliness, work efficiency and special care.
The center of the poem is precisely this peasant woman, homely, devoted, businesslike and warm-hearted. But V. Alexandrov also noted that in the poem there is not one voice, but an alternation of voices - the author, the soldier’s wife, the soldier’s child, the soldier himself, and in each voice the character of a living character is revealed. Another point of view was expressed (Yu. Burtin) that “unlike “Vasily Terkin”, there are not characters here, but “fates”. Yes, here each person, as an individual character, has a more complete (although also not quite complete), separate fate, but the fate of a character, just as in that poem characters have destinies, albeit with somewhat wider and more flexible boundaries.
In general, in Tvardovsky’s poetry, characters and destinies are always inseparable. And in essence, their relationships in both poems are similar: only in “Road House” the homely lyrical beginning of the characters is more emphasized, and they are focused on two or three main motives, voices. The most developed central image of Anna Sivtsova, in her three main hypostases, faces: mother, wife, peasant housewife. And this main pathos of hers is not just named and designated by fate, but also outlined by several brief additional strokes of character, behavior, and statement. She is both “sharp in speech” and “quick in deeds.” And as mobile as a “snake”. And in times of trouble, she is calmly courageous, resilient, patient, with her husband and children she is extremely sympathetic, understanding, and caring. This is a special, although at the same time ideally generalized type of Russian peasant woman, continuing the gallery of peasant women in the lyrics and prose of the 30s, but more developed and intensely emotional, in a much more intense historical situation and in her personal and national life. And the voice of the author himself appears more actively. And in the conditionally symbolic voice of the child in the poem, the voice of the very beginning of life, the right of life to live, is emphasized, and this conditional “speech” contrasts in a new way with the specific features of surrounding events and people’s behavior. The lyrical beginning acquires an epic and tragic content, because family and family work, family community embodies world-historical trends, traditions, ideals of people's life and specific Russian Soviet peasants in specific conditions of time. Both in our homeland and in captivity of the enemy. And the lyrical voice of the family naturally merges with the lyrical voice of the warring soldier, the author himself, their unity - “Do not spare // the enemy in battle, // Free // your family.” This is the voice of confession and at the same time an oratorical call to all the people. And the lyrical dialogue between mother and child in the same chapter VIII , which describes the birth of a son in captivity of the enemy, in someone else’s house, as an anti-home, turns into a generalized symbolic dialogue between the two main forces of life in their common struggle with death, as a kind of song of life, a song of home.
The combination of epic, tragic and lyrical principles, as always with Tvardovsky, appears both in its immediate everyday and psychological concreteness, but here the melodic, song beginning is emphasized in it. Not only the tonality of the different voices of the characters, but also the dominant tonality of the author’s lyrical appeal to his characters and to himself. The voices sound somewhat more homogeneous than in the military lyrics and in “Vasily Terkin”. The author's voice remains a companion and commentator; the entire poem combines the sequence of a descriptive story, a lyrical chronicle, and a continuous moving present, a diary-monologue address of the author. In the unified musical organization of these voices, the leitmotif that has become famous takes on a special role: “Mow, scythe, // Until the dew. // Down with the dew, // And we’re home.” The leitmotif first appears as a detail of a direct, concrete depiction of the peaceful labor and life of the owner of a house near the road. And then it is repeated as a memory, a reminder, a multi-turn metonymy and metaphor - the memory of this work, of this peaceful life and as a detail-signal that resurrects lost time, the chain of time of memory, and as a new affirmation of the power of human constancy, the irresistible beginning of peaceful life , hopes for the future, and as a broader symbol of work and the morning of life, everything domestic and labor in it. Her braids, her dew, her houses. Thus, the lyrical chronicle becomes not only a new form of lyric poem with epic elements, but also a new form of the moving present, the diary principle in Tvardovsky’s poetry. Reflections in it of the fundamental, internal, intimate, deep values of human life, in the words of one of the chapters of “Vasily Terkin”, are the “emergency reserve” of each individual person, individual family and the entire lyrical beginning of human life. And accordingly, the poetics of the entire poem differs from “Vasily Terkin” in its greater concentration in the depiction of these values and simpler, more economical means, which also, however, combine both direct and indirect, metaphorical reproduction. Such a detail and at the same time a metaphor like “smells of melancholy” is an illustrative example of the typological features of poetic language, the mastery of this poem, and what unites this mastery with the rest of Tvardovsky’s work.
The chronicle structure of the poem, emphasized by the subtitle and echoing the title of the collection of poems of that time (“front-line chronicle”), is complicated, as in other poems by Tvardovsky, with inserted episodes, with their own time, partly parallel to the general course of time of the poem (the story of a soldier, father and husband , in chapter VI ). In addition, dialogues are inserted that create, as in “Terkin,” direct transitions from the past to the present. Final chapter IX separated from the previous ones by a sharp jump in time, completes the entire movement of the poem with a return from war to peace, from the roads of war and someone else’s house to the original house and road. But this is again a dissymmetrical construction, because that house no longer exists, and a soldier “sat down on a pebble at the former threshold” of his house, a soldier with a bad leg, who went through the war and still does not know what happened to his wife and family. And he begins to build the house all over again. In this incompleteness of the completion of the poem there is a special artistic tact and strength. The author and the reader still know that the family survived, even the son of a soldier appeared, whom he, apparently, will now also find. Life won, the house won, although it was destroyed. And the memory of grief, and the memory of family, home, and the memory of work itself, of the entire working people’s community, merge, indestructible, like life itself on earth. I would like to note in passing the similarity of the motives of this chapter with “The Orphan Soldier” by “Vasily Terkin” and with the almost simultaneous poem by Isakovsky “Enemies burned their home.” Roll call - and addition.
For all its extreme simplicity and lack of external innovations, the poem is also a deeply innovative work. And with its combination of lyrical and epic principles, motives of peace and war, family during the war. And a very bold combination of concrete everyday and conditionally symbolic speech in its utmost naturalness. And the further development of Tvardovsky’s intonation, combining melodiousness, colloquialism, oratory and dramatic speech, personal and collective experience under the dominance of a special, first discovered polyphonic lyrical melody. The poem is closely intertwined with both the lyrics and the epic of Tvardovsky of these years, partly preparing new features of his lyricism already in the 60s, in particular, some sections of the cycle “In Memory of the Mother”.
A. Tvardovsky wrote the poem “House by the Road” for all times and generations. Such a work, strong in its tragedy, always remains relevant because it shows the main epic moments of humanity. The author, with all his poetic allegories, conveys to the reader at what price a world destroyed by war is achieved. Tvardovsky clearly shows the heroism of people, not through slogans and propaganda, but deep, reliable and indisputable.
Reading the poem, you can clearly see the image of three times: past, present, future. The past describes a peaceful, clear and calm time. The confidence of people - peasants in their peaceful concerns: about their own home, garden, children, mowing grass and plowing the land. Melodic song lines sung in the bright hour:
“Mow the braid
While it’s dew”...
They sweep through the entire work and, as a symbol for a bright future, sound like an anthem.
Like holy calm, the writer talks about the last peaceful day. The main characters will remember this throughout the poem - an ordinary peasant family. Memorable moments of husband and wife Andrei and Anna Sivtsov, about their children, about the measured life that the war mercilessly took away will appear.
The terrible and destructive present time has shackled people with its military shackles. The husband who went to the front sees the whole bloody reality. However, his wife, who remained in the house by the road with her children, feels like a hostage behind enemy lines, but still, with all her might, continues to work hard on her land with the same neighbors - peasants. But the Nazis take them prisoner. Tvardovsky was not afraid to tell the painful and unbearable experiences of the prisoners, who in an instant became traitors to their entire native country. The writer depicts the inaccuracy of this judgment, which ruined so many crippled lives of his compatriots. The horror that is difficult to convey is the loss of a house burned by enemies, saying goodbye to your loved one. It is demonstrated to the maximum by the dramatic lines of the poem, which describe the birth of a son to Anna Sivtsova in fascist captivity. The resilience of this woman is shown as an example of fortitude in forced military events.
In the last chapter of the poem, the reader will feel not the joy of the victory of Andrei Sivtsov, who returned from the front, but the sadness of devastated loneliness. However, the hero found the willpower to rebuild the house again, do household chores, mow the grass again - and all this with great hope of returning his beloved family to their native land. How much grief lies in this blow of fate for millions of innocent souls.
The main idea of the author of the poem "House by the Road" is expressed in the morality of the work. And the moral is this: that every inhabitant of our planet must remember the importance of peaceful relations between people and countries. And also even about the imaginary boundaries of time, so that the deep memory of our ancestors necessarily lives in the conscience of the heart, and not only in an individual person, but also in the society of humanity.
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Tvardovsky’s deep democracy, so clearly manifested in “Vasily Terkin,” also distinguishes the concept of his poem “House by the Road” (1942-1946). It is dedicated to the fate of a simple peasant family that experienced all the hardships of the war. The subtitle of the poem - “lyrical chronicle” - exactly corresponds to its content and character. The chronicle genre in its traditional sense is a presentation of historical events in their time sequence. For the poet, the fate of the Sivtsov family, with its tragedy and typicality for those years, not only meets these genre requirements, but also evokes complicity, deep empathy, reaching enormous emotional intensity and prompting the author to constantly intervene in the narrative.
A fate similar to that of Andrei Sivtsov was already outlined in “Vasily Terkin”, in the chapters “Before the Battle” and “About the Orphan Soldier”. Now it is depicted in more detail and even more dramatized.
The picture of the last peaceful Sunday that opens the poem is filled with that “traditional beauty” of rural labor (mowing “for a festive task”), which Tvardovsky poetized since the time of “The Country of Ant”. This dear and bitter memory of the familiar and beloved peasant life, of “housing, comfort, order,” interrupted (and for many, cut off forever) by the war, will subsequently constantly be resurrected in the poem along with the age-old saying:
Mow, scythe,
While there is dew,
Down with the dew -
And we're home.
During the difficult time of retreat, Sivtsov secretly goes home for a short time - “thin, overgrown, as if covered all over with ash” (the “fringe of the sleeve” of a frayed overcoat is briefly mentioned), but stubbornly plotting a “route not written by anyone” in pursuit of the front.
His wife's story is even more dramatic. Always worshiped the image of a woman-mother, capturing it in many poems different years(“Song”, “Mothers”, “Mother and Son”, etc.) Tvardovsky this time created a particularly multifaceted character. Anna Sivtsova is not just charming (“Sharp in speech, quick in deeds, Like a snake, she walked all over”), but full of the greatest dedication and mental strength, allowing her to endure the most terrible trials, for example, being sent to a foreign land, to Germany:
And at least barefoot in the snow,
Have time to dress three.
With a trembling hand, catch
Hooks, ties, mother.
Strive for a simple lie
Allay childish fear.
And put all yours on the road,
Grab it like out of fire.
Anna's maternal tragedy and at the same time heroism reach their peak when her son is born in a convict barracks, seemingly doomed to death. Remarkably using the poetics of folk lamentations and cries (“Why did the twig turn green at such an unkind time? Why did you happen, son, my dear child?”), Tvardovsky conveys an imaginary, fantastic conversation between a mother and her child, the transition from despair to hope:
I am small, I am weak, I am the freshness of the day
I can smell it on your skin.
Let the wind blow on me -
And I will untie my hands,
But you won't let him blow,
You won't let me, my dear,
While your chest sighs,
While she's still alive.
The heroes of “Road House” also find themselves face to face with death, hopelessness, and despair, as was the case with Terkin in the chapter “Death and the Warrior,” and they also emerge victorious from this confrontation. In the essay “In Native Places,” talking about his fellow villager, who, like Andrei Sivtsov, was building a house on the ashes, Tvardovsky expressed his attitude to this with journalistic directness: “It seemed more and more natural to me to define the construction of this simple log cabin as some kind of feat . The feat of a simple worker, farmer and family man, who shed blood in the war for his native land and now on it, ruined and despondent during the years of his absence, beginning to start his life all over again...” In the poem, the author provided the opportunity for the readers themselves to draw a similar conclusion, limiting themselves to the most a laconic description of this quiet feat of Andrei Sivtsov:
...pulled with a sore leg
To the old village.
I took a smoke break, took off my overcoat,
Marked the plan with a shovel.
If I wait for my wife and children to go home,
This is how you need to build a house.
She pulled somehow
Along the highway track -
With the smaller one, asleep in my arms,
And the whole family crowd.
The reader wants to see Anna in her, but the artist’s tact warned Tvardovsky against a happy ending. In one of his articles, the poet noted that many of the best works of Russian prose, “having arisen from living life... in their endings, they strive, as it were, to close with the same reality from which they came and dissolve in it, leaving the reader wide scope for the mental continuation of their , for further thinking, “further research” of the human destinies, ideas and questions raised in them.” And in his own poem, Tvardovsky allowed readers to vividly imagine the tragic end that similar stories had in the lives of many people.