"House by the Road" analysis of the work - theme, idea, genre, plot, composition, characters, issues and other issues are discussed in this article.

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 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 (“She’s sharp in speech, quick in deeds, she walked like a snake”), but she’s full of the greatest dedication, mental strength, allowing her to endure the most terrible trials, for example, being sent to a foreign land, to Germany:

And even 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. Wonderfully 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, grain grower and family man who shed blood in the war for native land and now on it, ruined and despondent over the years of his absence, beginning to start 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 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 the articles, the poet noted that many best works Russian prose, “having arisen from living life... in their endings they tend to, as it were, close with the same reality from which they came and dissolve in it, leaving the reader wide scope for mental continuation of them, for further thinking, “further research” of those touched upon in them human destinies, ideas and questions." And in his own poem, Tvardovsky allowed readers to vividly imagine the tragic end that similar stories had in the lives of many people.

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 the fate of a peasant family, a small, modest part of the people, upon which 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 once he walked, but didn’t get there,

So I have to get there....

If only 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: 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 one is so destitute human life, so weak is her light, so little hope of meeting her father - life emerges victorious from an unequal duel with death threatening her.

Returning home, Andrei Sivtsov knows nothing about the fate of his family. The war finally presented another bitter paradox - it is not the soldier’s wife and children who are waiting for 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...”

Stayed for a day or two. -

Well, thanks for that.-

And 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.

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.”

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 a 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 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 random

He 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

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. Having always admired the image of a woman-mother, capturing it in many poems over the years (“Song”, “Mothers”, “Mother and Son”, etc.), this time Tvardovsky 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. Wonderfully 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, grain grower 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 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.

The strengthening of the personal element in Tvardovsky’s work of the 40s undoubtedly affected another of his major works. In the first year of the war it was started and ended soon after its end. lyric poem"House by the Road" (1942-1946). “Its theme,” as the poet himself notes, “is war, but from a different side than in “Terkin” - from the side of home, family, wife and children of a soldier who survived the war. The epigraph of this book could be lines taken from it:

Come on people. never

Let's not forget about this."

The poem is based on a mournful story about the dramatic, sad fate of the simple peasant family of Andrei and Anna Sivtsov and their children. But it reflected the grief of millions; the universal, terrible tragedy of war and cruel times was refracted in a private fate. And the story, the narration are closely connected, fused with the socio-philosophical thoughts of the poet. Through difficult fate The Sivtsov family, which was scattered by the war: the father went to the front, the mother and children were taken captive by the Nazis to Germany - the poet not only reveals the hardships of military trials, but above all affirms the victory of life over death.

The poem is about the resilience of the people, who retained the strength of their active goodness, morality, sense of family and home in the most seemingly unbearable conditions of Hitler's camps. Narrating about mortally difficult trials, it is all turned to life, peace, and creative work. The refrain is not accidental: “Mow, scythe,

While there is dew,

Down with the dew -

And we are home,” the motive of an inevitable return to peaceful work and life that arose already in the 1st chapter.

Although “Road House” has a fairly clear and definite plot outline, the main thing here is still not the eventfulness. Much more important is close attention to the spiritual world, inner experiences characters, the feelings and thoughts of the lyrical hero, whose role and place in the poem have noticeably increased. The personal, lyrical, tragic principle comes to the fore in it, becomes decisive, and therefore it is no coincidence that Tvardovsky called his poem a “lyrical chronicle.”

The poem is marked by polyphony and at the same time a peculiar song-like quality. Hence the characteristic figurative, speech, lexical means and phrases (“cry for the homeland”, “song of its harsh fate”, etc.). Together with “Vasily Terkin”, this poem forms a kind of “military duology” - heroic epic the war years, marked by the strengthening and deepening of the lyrical beginning.

A new stage in the development of the country and literature - the 50s-60s - was marked in Tvardovsky’s poetic work by further advancement in the field of lyrical epic - the creation of a kind of trilogy: the lyrical epic “Beyond the Distance”, the satirical fairy tale poem “Terkin on That light" and the lyrical and tragic poem-cycle "By the right of memory." Each of these works in its own way was a new word about the fate of a time, a country, a people, a person.

The poem “Beyond the Distance is Distance” (1950-1960) is a large-scale lyrical poem about modernity and history, about a turning point in the lives of millions of people. This is a detailed lyrical monologue of a contemporary, a poetic narrative about the difficult destinies of the homeland and people, about their complex historical path, about internal processes and changes in the spiritual world of man in the 20th century.

The poem took a long time to develop and was published as successive chapters were written. In the process of forming the artistic whole, some chapters changed places (“On the Road”), others were radically reworked, for example, “On the March Week” (1954), which was partially and in a significantly changed form included in the chapter “So it was.”

The subtitle of the poem “Beyond the Distance is Distance” is “From a Travel Diary,” but this still says little about her genre originality. The pictures and images that appear as the content of the poem unfolds are both specific and generalized. These are the large-scale landscapes born in the author’s imagination on the basis of “outside the window” landscape impressions. poetic images“Mother Volga” (chapter “Seven Thousand Rivers”), “Fathers of the Urals” (“Two Forges”), Siberian expanses scattered across half the world (“Lights of Siberia”). But that's not all. The author emphasizes the capacity of the chosen “travel plot”, the epic and philosophical-historical scale of the seemingly simple story about a trip to the Far East:

And how many things, events, destinies,

Human sorrows and victories

Fits in these ten days,

That they turned at the age of ten!

The movement of time-history, the fate of the people and the individual, the desire to penetrate into the deep meaning of the era, into its tragic contradictions constitute the content of the thoughts of the lyrical hero, his spiritual world. The pains and joys of the people resonate with acute empathy in his soul. This hero is deeply individual, inseparable from the author. The whole gamut of living things is available to him human feelings, inherent in the personality of the poet himself: kindness and severity, tenderness, irony and bitterness... And at the same time, he carries a generalization, absorbs the features of many. This is how the poem develops an idea of ​​the internally integral, complex and diverse spiritual world of a contemporary.

Preserving the external signs of a “travel diary,” Tvardovsky’s book turns into a kind of “chronicle,” “chronicle,” or rather, into a living poetic history of modern times, an honest reflection on the era, the life of the country and people in the past great historical period, including cruel injustices and repressions. Stalin's times (chapters “Childhood Friend”, “So It Was”). At the same time, the lyrics, the epic, and the dramatic beginning of the poem merge, forming an artistic synthesis, the interaction of generic principles on a lyrical basis. Therefore, “Beyond the Distance, the Distance” can be defined as a kind of lyrical and philosophical epic about modernity and the era.

At the same time, the poem is by no means free from a utopian belief in the transformative successes of socialism (the chapter on the closure of the Angara during the construction of the dam, which carries an echo of the euphoria of grandiose post-war plans - the “great construction projects of communism”), is especially indicative. Readers, of course, were especially attracted by the theme of the “cult of personality.” But Tvardovsky, while developing it, remained within the confines of a completely Soviet, largely limited consciousness. The conversation about “Beyond the Distance, the Distance” by A. A. Akhmatova and L. K. Chukovskaya, which took place in early May 1960, is indicative.

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