Lonely

Vladimir Benediktov was born two hundred years ago

Remembering Benediktov, it is difficult to forget the ending of his first (and, to be honest, only) biography. Sincerely and contrary to “good manners,” Yakov Polonsky, who loved his older brother (a wonderful poet and kind person), wrote that after Benediktov’s death in 1873 it was discovered: “Many, even of his acquaintances, did not know where his apartment was, and very few spent time on eternal peace." Someone here will be drawn to “just” schadenfreude: this, they say, is what the “caliph for an hour” should do, who three and a half decades earlier turned weak heads and was considered the winner of Pushkin. Others will reasonably note that in the second half of the 19th century, poets were not particularly valued at all, and therefore were buried modestly. (Talking about the crowded farewell meeting with Nekrasov, whom ardent radical youth put above Pushkin and Lermontov, but by no means for his great poetry, Dostoevsky sadly pointed out to the public that there was, they say, such a poet Tyutchev...) Everything is correct, but Benediktov’s orphan departure makes you think not only that worldly fame (in particular, secured, in today's language, by rabid PR) is fleeting, but in other eras (not just now) poetry in Rus' was not worth a penny. And pointing out the reserved nature of Benediktov (it’s not for nothing that he has been close friends with the also lonely and “squeezed” Goncharov for many years) will also not get you off. By the way, from his youth Benediktov was not noticed as misanthropic and complex. And why?

A boy from a noble family (his father was a popovich, a nobleman by rank) brilliantly graduated from the cadet corps (where he studied mathematics intensively), was released into the guard, bravely fought in the Polish campaign (awarded the Order of St. Anne, 4th degree), and transferred to the civilian army. service, became an active and valued employee (mathematics came in handy) of the Minister of Finance E.F. Kankrina. (After the death of the minister, Benediktov honored him with a heartfelt and completely disinterested poetic memoir - the poem “He”; a unique case, probably, not only for Russian poetry.) Benediktov wrote poetry from his youth, but was not eager to publish. When his first collection (1835; the poet was 27 years old, a late debut at that time) achieved enormous success, when in the most fashionable and successful magazine of the time - “Library for Reading” - Benediktov became the most desirable author, when the creator of “The Cliff” and “Unforgettable” began to be praised in every possible way and put above Pushkin (S.P. Shevyrev, who was looking for a renewal of the poetic language, wrote this secretly, but the public understood the hints; simple-minded booksellers directly told customers that the new poet would be better than the old one), Benediktov was by no means a genius I don't think so. And when Belinsky smashed him to smithereens, he did not despair. And in the 40s, when sonorous and bright poetry (and with them all others) fell in price, I did not stop writing. And when a new rise in popularity (late 1850s) was followed by Dobrolyubov’s scolding, and then a cooling of the public (to poetry in general, and not to Benediktov alone), he stopped publishing, but not composing.

The fact is that Benediktov never wanted to be a master of thoughts and a triumphant singer. Nor did he want to when the logic of literary evolution, which in the 1830s demanded a change from “harmonic precision” to an infectious roar, catchy color, and whirlwind-vague semantics, which was supposed to convey the “physiology” of rapidly boiling passions, brought him to the top of Russian Parnassus. Benediktov knew that the lot of a true (romantic) poet is suffering and loneliness, that he is called to sing beauty (visible, carnal, seductive, menacing, and the list goes on) and will not receive in return either a laurel crown or rapturous kisses. Perhaps the “frozen delight” of the crowd and the condescending smile of a beauty with whom it is impossible to enter into legal marriage. And not because the priest’s family did not come across as a face, but because the poets otherwise prescribed.

A young maiden is beautiful, / When, all dressed in gauze, / She rushes as if unearthly / In intricate circles <...> A young maiden is beautiful, / When, in love, she, / Dreaming of a slender young man, / Sits sad and pale <. ..> The young maiden is beautiful, / When she is at rest, / Luxuriously developing her limbs / In the midst of an intoxicating sleep... All “three types” are a sight for sore eyes. Well, look. For example, for a rider: I love Matilda when, like an Amazon/ She reigns over the side saddle,/ And tugs at the reins with a stubborn hand,/ And acts with a violently shrill whip <...> And rushes around like a whirlwind, until fatigue/ Fog casts itself over her bright eyes.. ./ Matilda jumped down - and in sweet excitement/ Throws herself violently onto the lush sofa. Years will pass, Bryullov will be replaced by Delacroix: Freedom is a woman with elastic, powerful breasts, / With a tan on her cheek, / With a lit wick attached to a gun, / In a smoking hand <...> Freedom is a woman; but in generous voluptuousness/ She is faithful to her chosen ones,/ Only the mighty ones are accepted into her depths/ The mighty wife. Benediktov translated Barbier’s “A Dog’s Feast” not by order, but intoxicated by the energy of the Gallic freedom-lover. The rabble there loaded guns with a dirty hand, / And with a sooty mouth, / In the powder smoke, there the bastard exclaimed: / “E... m..! We'll die! not so far from Everything glitters: flowers, kenkets, / And diamond, and turquoise, / Ribbons, stars, epaulets, / Earrings, rings and bracelets, / Curls, phrases and eyes. Benediktov was neither a lackey of the aristocracy nor a plebeian democrat - his verse world was always a luxurious fantasy, sharply separated from everyday life. Whoever mocked the hybrid “poet-official” (from the cheerful darlings of fortune who dreamed up Benedict’s colleague Kozma Prutkov, to the democratic whistlers), and in vain: Benediktov did not mix these two crafts. This does not mean that there is no “content” in his poems (there is, as well as the desire to master new topics), but the poem as such is always more important.

Creator! Send me troubles and hardships, / Let me be sorrow and a companion and a friend! / But leave me in my heart the illness of inspiration, / A deep, beautiful, sacred illness. And there is no need for any life-building if all the ups and downs, lusts, possessions and breaks are experienced in the verbal cosmos, where waterfalls roar, volcanoes swirl, stars flare up and seductive, but inaccessible (that’s the sweetness), tangible physical shadows of white- and black-haired people flash enchantresses Triumphant Nina/ Sees: a humble dove,/ The son of thunder, a male eagle/ Beating in the dust in front of her <...> How to restrain him? where is the chain?/ Woe, if in front of him/ He sees only the steppe/ With parched grass!/ From your heart he/ Will turn to the clouds, to the hidden share,/ If the sky is full of food/ You do not feed him. These poems, worthy not of Captain Lebyadkin, but of Oleinikov, were written absolutely seriously. For only in poetry can a poet not look back at anything and is always a winner (unattainability, betrayal or contempt of a beloved in a fantastic verse space only exalts the poet, revealing his “otherness”). Hence - Benedict's synthesis of boldness and bad taste. For royal rank in the world of illusions, one does not mind any price. Including the rejection of the unity of personality, replaced by the masks of a poet and an official.

What he felt when the drug of poetry ceased to quench the pain (it is not for nothing that his frankly bad poems are incredibly drawn out - just to float in dreams), one can only guess. The life of Vladimir Grigorievich is a secret behind seven seals.

The amazing, multifaceted “Next Thought” explains something. And it will take up your whole head - / The thought of a secret friendly affection, / Or about a girl, or about a widow, / Or - unfortunately - about a married woman. / How can a warm heart connect / With this amorous thought, - / The whole universe seems to you / Sofia Pavlovna, Olga Lvovna <...> It’s a thing of the past! An ancient matter!/ How many of my affairs have you upset!/ How much stupid jealousy was there!/ Yes, with love it was at least worth it/ To be crazy, to show off;/ And now what? - Like an old / frail woman, the thought will become attached / Thin, gaunt <...> You drive her away with rude speech: / “Get out of St. Petersburg! To the Moscow region!/ I can’t compare you, toothless,/ With Sofia Pavlovna, with Olga Lvovna./ Get off, you lean one,/ Obsessive, waste-free!/ Get out, you old woman,/ Fekla Savvishna, you worthless!”/ I’m driving her away! with a shout, a stomp, / I shout not in verse, but in chopped prose, / And she answered in a half-whisper: / “You didn’t recognize me, my beloved! <...> You won’t be able to kiss me, / I can’t give you happiness, / But you won’t be deceived in me, / I tell you the real truth, / And I serve you as a faithful couple, / Both gloomy and stern, / I follow you like a woman old, / And a new woman follows me <...> She has no curls - nothing to shake, / Her head is hairless, / She can only twirl her scythe and wave / That noseless grandmother loves.”

Here are the Curls - rings, streams, snakes, / Curls - a silk cascade.

Andrey NEMZER