In the old days the plague was just as visible. Feast in Time of Plague
The tragedy “A Feast in the Time of Plague” by Pushkin was written in 1830, based on a passage from John Wilson’s poem “City of Plague”, which perfectly emphasized the mood of the writer. Due to the raging cholera epidemic, Pushkin could not leave Boldino and see his bride in Moscow.
For better preparation for a literature lesson, as well as for reader's diary We recommend reading online a summary of “A Feast in the Time of Plague.”
Main characters
Walsingham- the chairman of the feast, a brave and courageous young man, strong-willed.
Priest- the embodiment of piety and true faith.
Other characters
Young man– a cheerful young man in whom the energy of youth surges over the edge.
Mary- sad, thoughtful girl.
Louise– outwardly a strong and determined girl, but in fact very sensitive.
There is a table on the street laden with rich dishes. Several young men and women are sitting behind him. One of those present, a young man, addresses the group and reminds everyone of the carefree Jackson, whose jokes always lifted everyone's spirits. However, now the resilient Jackson, having become a victim of a ferocious plague, lies in a cold coffin. A young man offers to raise glasses of wine in memory of close friend“with a cheerful clink of glasses, with an exclamation, as if he were alive.”
The Chairman agrees to the proposal to honor the memory of Jackson, who was the first to leave their circle of friends. But he just wants to do it in silence. Everyone agrees.
The girl sings about her homeland, which recently flourished, but has now turned into a wasteland - schools and churches are closed, the once generous fields have become desolate, the cheerful voices and laughter of local residents are not heard. And only in the cemetery does life reign - one after another, coffins with victims of the plague are brought here, and “the groans of the living fearfully ask God to rest their souls.”
The chairman thanks Mary “for the plaintive song,” and suggests that in the girl’s homeland at one time there was raged the same terrible plague epidemic as the one that is now claiming people’s lives.
Suddenly, the decisive and daring Louise intervenes in their conversation, claiming that such mournful songs have long been out of fashion, and only naive souls are “happy to melt from women’s tears.”
The chairman asks for silence - he listens to the sound of the wheels of a cart loaded with corpses. At the sight of this terrible sight, Louise becomes ill. With her fainting, the girl proves that she is cruel and heartless only at first glance, but in fact, a tender, vulnerable soul is hidden in her.
Having come to her senses, Louise shares a strange dream that she had while fainting. A terrible demon - “all black, white-eyed” - called her into his terrible cart filled with the dead. The girl is not sure whether it was a dream or reality, and asks this question to her friends.
The young man replies that, although they are relatively safe, “the black cart has the right to drive around everywhere.” To lift the mood, he asks Walsingham to sing a “free, lively song.” To which the chairman replies that he will not sing a cheerful song, but a hymn in honor of the plague, which he himself wrote in a moment of inspiration.
The gloomy hymn extols praise to the plague, which not only “flatters with a rich harvest,” but also bestows unprecedented rapture that a strong-willed person can feel before death.
Meanwhile, a priest comes to the feasters, who reproaches them for inappropriate, blasphemous fun during such terrible grief, which covered the entire city. The elder is sincerely indignant that their “hateful delights disturb the silence of the tombs,” and calls on the young people to come to their senses.
The feasters drive the priest away, but he begs them to interrupt the monstrous feast and go home. Otherwise, they will never be able to meet the souls of their loved ones in heaven.
To which Walsingham replies that “youth loves joy,” but a gloomy mood reigns at home. The priest reminds the young man that he himself buried his mother three weeks ago, and “fought with a cry over her grave.” He is sure that the unfortunate woman is watching her feasting son with tears in her eyes.
Walsingham responds to the priest’s order with a decisive refusal, since at the feast he is held back by “despair, terrible memories,” and he simply cannot bear the horror of the dead emptiness of his home. The chairman asks the priest to go in peace and not bother them with his sermons.
Retiring, the priest in his last word mentions Matilda's pure spirit - deceased wife Walsingham. Hearing the name of his beloved wife, the chairman loses peace of mind. He is saddened that Matilda’s soul looks at him from heaven and sees him not as “pure, proud, free” as she always considered him during his life.
Priest in last time asks Walsingham to leave the feast, but the chairman remains. But he no longer indulges in fun as before - all his thoughts hover somewhere very far away...
Conclusion
In his book, Pushkin shows the fear of death as a catalyst for human essence. In the face of imminent death, everyone behaves differently: someone finds solace in faith, someone tries to forget themselves in debauchery and fun, someone pours out their heartache in lyrics. But before death, everyone is equal, and there is no way to hide from it.
After familiarizing yourself with a brief retelling“A Feast in the Time of Plague” on our website we recommend reading the tragedy in its full version.
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Pushkin A. S.Feast in Time of Plague// Pushkin A. S. Complete collection works: In 10 volumes - L.: Science. Leningr. department, 1977--1979. T. 5. Evgeny Onegin. Dramatic works. -- 1978 . -- P. 351--359. http://feb-web.ru/feb/pushkin/texts/push10/v05/d05-351.htm
FEAST IN TIME OF PLAGUE
(EXCERPT FROM WILSON'S TRAGEDY: THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE)
(Street. Table set.
Several men and women feasting.)
Young man. Honorable Chairman! I will remind you of a man very familiar to us, About the one whose jokes, funny stories, Sharp answers and remarks, So caustic in their funny importance, Enlivened the table conversation And dispersed the darkness that now Infection, our guest, sends On the most brilliant minds. For two days then our common laughter glorified His stories; It is impossible for us to forget Jackson in our merry feasting. His chairs stand empty here, as if waiting for the Merry fellow - but he has already gone into the cold underground dwellings... Although the most eloquent tongue has not yet fallen silent in the dust of the coffin, But there are many of us still alive, and we have no reason to be sad. So, I propose to drink in his memory With a cheerful clink of glasses, with an exclamation, As if he were alive. Chairman. He was the first to leave our circle. Let us drink in silence in his honor. Young man. Let it be so.
(Everyone drinks in silence.)
Chairman. Your voice, dear, brings out the sounds of our dear songs with wild perfection: Sing, Mary, we are sad and drawn-out, So that we then turn to joy More crazily, like one who was excommunicated from the earth by some vision. Mary (sings). There was a time when our side flourished in the world; On Sunday the Church of God was full; Our children's voices were heard in the noisy school, And the sickle and the swift scythe sparkled in the bright field. Now the church is empty; The school is tightly locked; The cornfield is idly overripe; The dark grove is empty; And the village, like a burnt dwelling, stands - Everything is quiet. One cemetery is not empty, not silent. Every minute they carry the dead, And the lamentations of the living fearfully ask God to calm their souls. Every minute need space, And the graves huddle together like a frightened herd in a close line! If an early grave is destined for my spring - You, whom I loved so much, Whose love is my joy, - I pray: do not approach Jenny’s body with yours, Do not touch the lips of the dead, Follow her from afar. And then leave the village! Go somewhere, where you can soothe the torment of your soul and relax. And when the infection has passed, Visit my poor ashes; And Jenny will not leave Edmond even in heaven! Chairman. Thank you, thoughtful Mary, Thank you for the plaintive song! In former days, the same plague, apparently, visited your hills and valleys, and pitiful groans were heard along the banks of streams and streams, now running cheerfully and peacefully through the wild paradise of your native land; And the gloomy year, in which so many brave, kind and beautiful victims fell, barely left a memory of itself in some simple shepherd's song, sad and pleasant... No! Nothing saddens us so much in the midst of joy, Like a languid sound repeated by the heart! Mary. Oh, if only I had never sung outside my parents’ hut! They loved to listen to Mary; I seem to listen to myself, Singing at my birthplace - My voice was sweeter at that time - it Was the voice of innocence... Louise. Not in fashion Now such songs! But there are still simple souls: they are happy to melt from women’s tears, and blindly believe them. She is sure that Her tearful gaze is irresistible - and if she thought the same about her laughter, then surely she would still smile. Walsingham praised the loud northern beauties: so she began to groan. I hate the yellowness of Scottish hair. Chairman. Listen: I hear the sound of wheels!
(A cart filled with dead bodies is traveling.
The Negro controls it.)
Yeah! Louise feels sick; in it, I thought, Judging by the language, man's heart. But this is how the tender is weaker than the cruel, And fear lives in the soul, tormented by passions! Throw water in her face, Mary. She's better. Mary. Sister of my sorrow and shame, lie down on my chest. Louise (coming to his senses). I dreamed of a terrible demon: all black, white-eyed... He called me into his cart. The dead lay in it - and babbled a terrible, unknown speech... Tell me: was it in a dream? Has the cart passed? Young man. Well, Louise, have fun - even though the whole street is ours A silent refuge from death, A haven of feasts unperturbed by anything, But you know? this black cart has the right to drive around everywhere - We must let it through! Listen, Walsingham: to stop disputes and the consequences of women's fainting, sing Us a song - a free, living song - Not inspired by Scottish sadness, But a riotous, bacchanalian song, Born over a boiling cup. Chairman. I don’t know this one, but I’ll sing you a hymn in honor of the plague, I wrote it Last night how we parted. I found a strange desire for rhymes For the first time in my life. Listen to me: My hoarse voice is fit for a song. - Many. Anthem in honor of the plague! let's listen to him! Anthem in honor of the plague! Wonderful! bravo! bravo! Chairman (sings). When mighty Winter, like a cheerful leader, leads her shaggy squads of her frosts and snows towards us, fireplaces crackle towards her, and the winter heat of feasts is cheerful. * The terrible queen, The plague is now coming at us on its own And is flattered by the rich harvest; And on our window day and night He knocks with a grave shovel... What should we do? and how to help? * As from the mischievous Winter, Let us also lock ourselves away from the Plague, Light the fires, pour glasses; Let's drown our minds cheerfully And, having brewed feasts and balls, Let's glorify the kingdom of the Plague. * There is rapture in battle, And in the dark abyss on the edge, And in the furious ocean, Among the menacing waves and stormy darkness, And in the Arabian hurricane, And in the breath of the Plague. * Everything, everything that threatens death, conceals inexplicable pleasures for the mortal heart - Immortality, perhaps a guarantee! And happy is the one who, in the midst of excitement, could find and know them. * So, praise be to you, Plague! We are not afraid of the darkness of the grave, We will not be confused by your calling! We sing our glasses together, And the rose maidens drink the breath, - Perhaps... full of Plague.
(The old priest enters.)
Priest. Godless feast, godless madmen! With feasts and songs of debauchery you swear at the gloomy silence, death widespread everywhere! Amid the horror of mournful funerals, Amid pale faces, I pray in the cemetery And your hateful delights Confound the silence of the coffins - and shake the earth Over the dead bodies! If the prayers of old men and women had not consecrated the common death pit, I might have thought that today demons are tormenting the lost spirit of the atheist and dragging him into the pitch darkness with laughter. Several voices. He speaks masterfully about hell! Go, old man! go your way! Priest. I conjure you with the holy blood of the Savior, crucified for us: Interrupt the monstrous feast, when You wish to meet in heaven the Lost beloved souls - Go to your homes! Chairman. House A We are sad - youth loves joy. Priest. Is that you, Walsingham? Are you the one who, for three weeks on his knees, embraced his mother’s corpse, sobbing, and fought with a cry over her grave? Or do you think she’s not crying now, She’s not crying bitterly in the very heavens, Looking at her feasting son, In the feast of debauchery, hearing your voice, Singing frantic songs, between the prayers of the saint and heavy sighs? Follow me! Chairman. Why do you come to disturb Me? I can’t, I shouldn’t follow you. I am held here by Despair, by terrible memories, by the consciousness of my iniquity, and by horror. that dead one emptiness, Which I meet in my home, - And with the news of these frenzied joys, And with the blessed poison of this cup, And with the caresses (God forgive me) of the deceased - but dear creature... My mother's shadow will not call me From here - it's too late - I hear your voice calling Me, I recognize your efforts to save Me... old man! Go in peace; But damned be whoever follows you! Many. Bravo, bravo! worthy chairman! Here's a sermon for you! let's go! let's go! Priest. Matilda's pure spirit is calling you! Chairman (rises). Swear to me, with your withered, pale hand raised to heaven, to leave the forever silent name in the grave! Oh, if only I could hide this sight from the eyes of her immortals! She once considered me pure, proud, free - And she knew heaven in my arms... Where am I? Holy child of light! I see You where my fallen spirit can no longer reach... Female voice. He's crazy - He's raving about his buried wife! Priest. Let's go, let's go... Chairman. My father, for God's sake, leave me! Priest. God bless you! Sorry, my son.
(He leaves. The feast continues. The chairman remains immersed in deep thought.)
FEAST IN TIME OF PLAGUE
The play is a translation of one scene from dramatic poem John Wilson's "The Plague City" (1816). The songs of Mary and the Chairman belong to Pushkin himself and do not in any way resemble the corresponding songs of Wilson. Wilson's play was known to Pushkin in the 1829 edition. It describes the London plague of 1665. The translation was completed in Boldin on November 6, 1830. The choice of scene for translation was prompted by the fact that at that time a cholera epidemic was raging in Russia, which was often called the plague. The play was published in the almanac "Alcyone" for 1832 (published around December 1, 1831) and was then included in Part III"Poems" by Pushkin.Street. The table is set. Several men and women feasting.
Young man
Honorable Chairman! I remember
About a person very familiar to us,
About whose jokes and stories are funny,
The answers are sharp and comments,
So caustic in their funny importance,
The table conversation was enlivened
And they dispersed the darkness that is now
The infection, our guest, sends
For the most brilliant minds.
For two days our common laughter glorified
His stories; impossible to be
So that we in our merry feast
Forgot Jackson! His chairs are here
They stand empty, as if waiting
Veselchak - but he’s already gone
To the cold underground dwellings...
Although the most eloquent language
He did not fall silent yet in the dust of the grave;
But many of us are still alive, and we
There is no reason to be sad. So,
I offer a drink in his memory
With a cheerful clink of glasses, with an exclamation,
As if he were alive.
Chairman
He was the first to leave
From our circle. Let it be silent
We'll drink in his honor.
Young man
Let it be so!
Everyone drinks in silence.
Chairman
Your voice, honey, makes sounds
Dear songs with wild perfection;
Sing, Mary, we feel sad and drawn out,
So that we can turn to fun later
Crazier than the one who is from the earth
Was excommunicated by some vision.
Mary
(singing)
There was a time when it flourished
In the world our side:
Was there on Sunday
God's Church is full;
Our children in a noisy school
Voices were heard
And sparkled in the bright field
Sickle and quick scythe.
Now the church is empty;
The school is tightly locked;
The cornfield is idly overripe;
The dark grove is empty;
And the village is like a home
Burnt, standing, -
Everything is quiet. One cemetery
It is not empty, it is not silent.
Every minute they carry the dead,
And the lamentations of the living
They timidly ask God
Rest their souls to rest!
We need space every minute,
And the graves among themselves,
Like a frightened herd,
They huddle together in a tight line!
If an early grave
My spring is destined -
You, whom I loved so much,
Whose love is my joy,
I pray: don't come closer
To Jenny's body you are yours,
Do not touch the lips of the dead,
Follow her from afar.
And then leave the village!
Go somewhere
Where could you torture souls
Soothe and relax.
And when the infection blows,
Visit my poor ashes;
But he won't leave Edmond
Jenny is even in heaven!
Chairman
Thank you, thoughtful Mary,
Thank you for the mournful song!
In the old days the plague was the same, apparently
I visited your hills and valleys,
And pathetic groans were heard
Along the banks of streams and streams,
Those running now cheerfully and peacefully
Through the wild paradise of your native land;
And the dark year in which so many fell
Brave, kind and beautiful victims,
Barely left a memory of myself
In some simple shepherd's song,
Dull and pleasant... No, nothing
It doesn't make us sad in the midst of joy,
What a languid sound repeated by the heart!
Mary
Oh, if only I had never sung
Outside my parents' hut!
They loved to listen to Mary;
I seem to be paying attention to myself,
Singing at my birth threshold.
My voice was sweeter at that time: he
Was the voice of innocence...
Louise
Not in fashion
Now such songs! But still there is
More simple souls: happy to melt
From women's tears and blindly believe them.
She is sure that the gaze is tearful
She’s irresistible – what if it were the same?
I was thinking about my laughter, then, that’s right,
I would still smile. Walsingham praised
Loud northern beauties: here
She groaned. I hate it
This Scottish hair is yellow.
Chairman
Listen: I hear the sound of wheels!
A cart filled with dead bodies is traveling. The black man controls it.
Yeah! Louise feels sick; in it, I thought
Judging by the language, a man's heart.
But this is how the tender is weaker than the cruel,
And fear lives in the soul, tormented by passions!
Throw water in her face, Mary. She's better.
Mary
Sister of my sorrow and shame,
Lie down on my chest.
Louise
(coming to my senses)
Terrible demon
I dreamed: all black, white-eyed...
He called me into his cart. In it
The dead lay and babbled
Terrible, unknown speech...
Tell me: was it a dream?
Has the cart passed?
Young man
Well, Louise,
Have fun - even though the street is all ours
Silent refuge from death
Shelter of feasts, unperturbed by anything,
But you know, this black cart
He has the right to travel everywhere.
We must let her through! Listen,
You, Walsingham: to stop disputes
And sing the consequences of women's fainting
A song for us, a free, live song,
Not inspired by Scottish sadness,
And the violent, bacchanalian song,
Born behind a boiling cup.
Chairman
I don’t know this one, but I’ll sing you a hymn
In honor of the plague, I wrote it
Last night we parted.
I have a strange desire for rhymes
For the first time in my life! Listen to me:
My hoarse voice is fitting for a song.
Many
Anthem in honor of the plague! let's listen to him!
Anthem in honor of the plague! Wonderful! bravo! bravo!
Chairman
(singing)
When mighty Winter
Like a cheerful leader, she leads herself
We have shaggy squads
Its frosts and snows, -
Fireplaces crackle towards her,
And the winter heat of feasts is cheerful.
Terrible Queen, Plague
Now she's coming at us
And is flattered by the rich harvest;
And to our window day and night
Knocking with a grave shovel...
What should we do? and how to help?
Like from the naughty Winter,
Let's also protect ourselves from the Plague!
Let's light the lights, pour glasses,
Let's drown fun minds
And, having prepared feasts and balls,
Let us praise the reign of the Plague.
There is ecstasy in battle,
And the dark abyss on the edge,
And in the angry ocean,
Among the menacing waves and stormy darkness,
And in the Arabian hurricane,
And in the breath of the Plague.
Everything, everything that threatens death,
Hides for the mortal heart
Inexplicable pleasures -
Immortality, perhaps, is a guarantee!
And happy is the one who is in the midst of excitement
I could acquire and know them.
So, praise be to you, Plague,
We are not afraid of the darkness of the grave,
We will not be confused by your calling!
We drink glasses together
And the rose maidens drink the breath, -
Perhaps... full of Plague!
The old priest enters.
Priest
Godless feast, godless madmen!
You are a feast and songs of debauchery
You swear at the gloomy silence,
Death widespread everywhere!
Amidst the horror of mournful funerals,
Among the pale faces I pray in the cemetery,
And your hateful delights
They confuse the silence of the coffins - and the earth
They are shaking over dead bodies!
Whenever old men and wives pray
They did not consecrate the common death pit, -
I might have thought that today there are demons
The lost spirit of the atheist is tormented
And they drag you into the pitch darkness laughing.
Multiple voices
He speaks masterfully about hell!
Go, old man! go your way!
Priest
I conjure you with holy blood
Savior crucified for us:
Stop the monstrous feast when
Would you like to meet in heaven
Lost beloved souls.
Go to your homes!
Chairman
At home
We are sad - youth loves joy.
Priest
Is that you, Walsingham? Are you the one?
Who is three weeks old, on his knees,
The mother's corpse, sobbing, hugged
And fought with a cry over her grave?
Or do you think she doesn't cry now?
Doesn't cry bitterly in the very heavens,
Looking at his feasting son,
In a feast of debauchery, hearing your voice,
Singing mad songs, between
Holy prayers and heavy sighs?
Follow me!
Chairman
Why are you coming
Worry me? I can't, I shouldn't
I'll follow you: I'm held here
Despair, terrible memories,
With the consciousness of my iniquity,
And the horror of that dead emptiness,
Which I meet in my house -
And the news of these crazy fun,
And the blessed poison of this cup,
And caresses (forgive me, Lord)
A dead but sweet creature...
Mother's shadow won't call me
From now on, it’s late, I hear your voice,
Calling me, I acknowledge the efforts
Save me... old man, go in peace;
But damned be whoever follows you!
Many
Bravo, bravo! worthy chairman!
Here's a sermon for you! let's go! let's go!
Priest
Matilda's pure spirit is calling you!
Chairman
(rises)
Swear to me, raised to heaven
Withered, pale hand - leave
In the coffin is a forever silent name!
Oh, if only from her immortal eyes
Hide this sight! Me once
She considered pure, proud, free -
And I knew heaven in my arms...
Where I am? Holy child of light! I see
I am where my fallen spirit goes
It won’t reach anymore...
Female voice
He's crazy -
He's raving about his buried wife!
Priest
Let's go, let's go...
Chairman
My father, for God's sake,
Leave me alone!
Priest
God bless you!
Sorry, my son.
Leaves. The feast continues. The Chairman remains immersed in deep thought.
There is a laid table outside, at which several young men and women are feasting. One of the feasters, a young man, addressing the chairman of the feast, recalls their mutual friend, the cheerful Jackson, whose jokes and witticisms amused everyone, enlivened the feast and dispersed the darkness that a fierce plague is now sending to the city. Jackson is dead, his chair at the table is empty, and the young man offers a drink in his memory. The Chairman agrees, but believes that they should drink in silence, and everyone drinks in silence in memory of Jackson.
The chairman of the feast turns to a young woman named Mary and asks her to sing a sad and drawn-out song of her native Scotland, and then return to the fun. Mary sings about home side, which flourished in contentment until misfortune befell it and the side of fun and work turned into the land of death and sadness. The heroine of the song asks her beloved not to touch her Jenny and leave her native village until the infection passes, and vows not to leave her beloved Edmond even in heaven.
The Chairman thanks Mary for the plaintive song and suggests that once upon a time her region was visited by the same plague as the one that is now decimating all living things here. Mary remembers how she sang in her parents' hut, how they loved to listen to their daughter... But suddenly the sarcastic and impudent Louise bursts into the conversation with the words that now such songs are not in fashion, although there are still simple souls ready to melt from women's tears and blindly believe them. Louise screams that she hates the yellowness of that Scottish hair. The chairman intervenes in the dispute, he calls on the feasters to listen to the sound of the wheels. A cart loaded with corpses approaches. The cart is driven by a black man. At the sight of this spectacle, Louise becomes ill, and the chairman asks Mary to throw water in her face to bring her to her senses. With her fainting, the chairman assures, Louise proved that “the gentle are weaker than the cruel.” Mary calms Louise down, and Louise, gradually coming to her senses, says that she dreamed of a black and white-eyed demon who called her to him, into his terrible cart, where the dead lay and babbled their “terrible, unknown speech.” Louise doesn’t know whether it was a dream or reality.
The young man explains to Louise that the black cart has the right to travel everywhere, and asks Walsingam to stop the disputes and “the consequences of women’s fainting” to sing a song, but not a sad Scottish one, “but a riotous, bacchanalian song,” and the chairman, instead of a bacchanalian song, sings a darkly inspired hymn in honor of the plague. This hymn contains praise for the plague, which can bestow an unknown rapture that a strong-willed person is able to feel in the face of impending death, and this pleasure in battle is “immortality, perhaps a guarantee!” Happy is he, sings the chairman, who is given the opportunity to feel this pleasure.
While Walsingham is singing, an old priest enters. He reproaches the feasters for their blasphemous feast, calling them atheists; the priest believes that with their feast they commit an outrage against the “horror of sacred funerals,” and with their delight they “disturb the silence of the coffins.” The feasters laugh at the gloomy words of the priest, and he conjures them with the Blood of the Savior to stop the monstrous feast if they want to meet the souls of their departed loved ones in heaven, and go home. The chairman objects to the priest that their homes are sad, but youth loves joy. The priest reproaches Walsingham and reminds him how just three weeks ago he hugged his mother’s corpse on his knees “and fought over her grave with a cry.” He assures that now the poor woman is crying in heaven, looking at her feasting son. He orders Walsingam to follow him, but Walsingam refuses to do this, since he is held here by despair and terrible memories, as well as by the consciousness of his own lawlessness, he is held here by the horror of the dead emptiness of his native home, even his mother’s shadow is unable to take him away from here, and he asks the priest to leave. Many admire Walsingham's bold rebuke to the priest, who conjures the wicked with the pure spirit of Matilda. This name brings the chairman into spiritual turmoil; he says that he sees her where his fallen spirit can no longer reach. Some woman notices that Walsingham has gone crazy and is “raving about his buried wife.” The priest persuades Walsingam to leave, but Walsingam, in the name of God, begs the priest to leave him and leave. Having called Holy Name, the priest leaves, the feast continues, but Walsingham “remains in deep thought.”
Street. The table is set. Several men and women feasting.
Young man
Honorable Chairman! I remember
About a person very familiar to us,
About whose jokes and stories are funny,
The answers are sharp and comments,
So caustic in their funny importance,
The table conversation was enlivened
And they dispersed the darkness that is now
The infection, our guest, sends
For the most brilliant minds.
For two days our common laughter glorified
His stories; impossible to be
So that we in our merry feast
Forgot Jackson! His chairs are here
They stand empty, as if waiting
Veselchak - but he’s already gone
To the cold underground dwellings...
Although the most eloquent language
He did not fall silent yet in the dust of the grave;
But many of us are still alive, and we
There is no reason to be sad. So,
I offer a drink in his memory
With a cheerful clink of glasses, with an exclamation,
As if he were alive.
He was the first to leave
From our circle. Let it be silent
We'll drink in his honor.
Let it be so!
Everyone drinks in silence.
Chairman
Your voice, honey, makes sounds
Dear songs with wild perfection;
Sing, Mary, we feel sad and drawn out,
So that we can turn to fun later
Crazier than the one who is from the earth
Was excommunicated by some vision.
(singing)
There was a time when it flourished
In the world our side:
Was there on Sunday
God's Church is full;
Our children in a noisy school
Voices were heard
And sparkled in the bright field
Sickle and quick scythe.
Now the church is empty;
The school is tightly locked;
The cornfield is idly overripe;
The dark grove is empty;
And the village is like a home
Burnt, standing, -
Everything is quiet. One cemetery
It is not empty, it is not silent.
Every minute they carry the dead,
And the lamentations of the living
They timidly ask God
Rest their souls to rest!
We need space every minute,
And the graves among themselves,
Like a frightened herd,
They huddle together in a tight line!
If an early grave
My spring is destined -
You, whom I loved so much,
Whose love is my joy,
I pray: don't come closer
To Jenny's body you are yours,
Do not touch the lips of the dead,
Follow her from afar.
And then leave the village!
Go somewhere
Where could you torture souls
Soothe and relax.
And when the infection blows,
Visit my poor ashes;
But he won't leave Edmond
Jenny is even in heaven!
Thank you, thoughtful Mary,
Thank you for the mournful song!
In the old days the plague was the same, apparently
I visited your hills and valleys,
And pathetic groans were heard
Along the banks of streams and streams,
Those running now cheerfully and peacefully
Through the wild paradise of your native land;
And the dark year in which so many fell
Brave, kind and beautiful victims,
Barely left a memory of myself
In some simple shepherd's song,
Dull and pleasant... No, nothing
It doesn't make us sad in the midst of joy,
What a languid sound repeated by the heart!
Oh, if only I had never sung
Outside my parents' hut!
They loved to listen to Mary;
I seem to be paying attention to myself,
Singing at my birth threshold.
My voice was sweeter at that time: he
Was the voice of innocence...
Not in fashion
Now such songs! But still there is
More simple souls: happy to melt
From women's tears and blindly believe them.
She is sure that the gaze is tearful
She’s irresistible – what if it were the same?
I was thinking about my laughter, then, that’s right,
I would still smile. Walsingham praised
Loud northern beauties: here
She groaned. I hate it
This Scottish hair is yellow.
Listen: I hear the sound of wheels!
A cart filled with dead bodies is traveling. The black man controls it.
Yeah! Louise feels sick; in it, I thought
Judging by the language, a man's heart.
But this is how the tender is weaker than the cruel,
And fear lives in the soul, tormented by passions!
Throw water in her face, Mary. She's better.
Sister of my sorrow and shame,
Lie down on my chest.
(coming to my senses)
Terrible demon
I dreamed: all black, white-eyed....
He called me into his cart. In it
The dead lay and babbled
Terrible, unknown speech...
Tell me: was it a dream?
Has the cart passed?
Well, Louise,
Have fun - even though the street is all ours
Silent refuge from death
Shelter of feasts, unperturbed by anything,
But you know, this black cart
He has the right to travel everywhere.
We must let her through! Listen,
You, Walsingham: to stop disputes
And sing the consequences of women's fainting
A song for us, a free, live song,
Not inspired by Scottish sadness,
And the violent, bacchanalian song,
Born behind a boiling cup.
I don’t know this one, but I’ll sing you a hymn
In honor of the plague, I wrote it
Last night we parted.
I have a strange desire for rhymes
For the first time in my life! Listen to me:
My hoarse voice is fitting for a song.
Anthem in honor of the plague! let's listen to him!
Anthem in honor of the plague! Wonderful! bravo! bravo!
Chairman
(singing)
When mighty Winter
Like a cheerful leader, she leads herself
We have shaggy squads
Its frosts and snows, -
Fireplaces crackle towards her,
And the winter heat of feasts is cheerful.
Terrible Queen, Plague
Now she's coming at us
And is flattered by the rich harvest;
And to our window day and night
Knocking with a grave shovel...
What should we do? and how to help?
Like from the naughty Winter,
Let's also protect ourselves from the Plague!
Let's light the lights, pour glasses,
Let's drown fun minds
And, having prepared feasts and balls,
Let us praise the reign of the Plague.
There is ecstasy in battle,
And the dark abyss on the edge,
And in the angry ocean,
Among the menacing waves and stormy darkness,
And in the Arabian hurricane,
And in the breath of the Plague.
Everything, everything that threatens death,
Hides for the mortal heart
Inexplicable pleasures -
Immortality, perhaps, is a guarantee!
And happy is the one who is in the midst of excitement
I could acquire and know them.
So, praise be to you, Plague,
We are not afraid of the darkness of the grave,
We will not be confused by your calling!
We drink glasses together
And the rose maidens drink the breath, -
Perhaps... full of Plague!
Pushkin. Feast in Time of Plague. Chairman's song. In the role of Walsingham - A. Trofimov
The old priest enters.
Priest
Godless feast, godless madmen!
You are a feast and songs of debauchery
You swear at the gloomy silence,
Death widespread everywhere!
Amidst the horror of mournful funerals,
Among the pale faces I pray in the cemetery,
And your hateful delights
They confuse the silence of the coffins - and the earth
They are shaking over dead bodies!
Whenever old men and wives pray
They did not consecrate the common death pit, -
I might have thought that today there are demons
The lost spirit of the atheist is tormented
And they drag you into the pitch darkness laughing.
He speaks masterfully about hell!
Go, old man! go your way!
I conjure you with holy blood
Savior crucified for us:
Stop the monstrous feast when
Would you like to meet in heaven
Lost beloved souls.
Go to your homes!
At home
We are sad - youth loves joy.
Is that you, Walsingham? Are you the one?
Who is three weeks old, on his knees,
The mother's corpse, sobbing, hugged
And fought with a cry over her grave?
Or do you think she doesn't cry now?
Doesn't cry bitterly in the very heavens,
Looking at his feasting son,
In a feast of debauchery, hearing your voice,
Singing mad songs, between
Holy prayers and heavy sighs?
Follow me!
Why are you coming
Worry me? I can't, I shouldn't
I'll follow you: I'm held here
Despair, terrible memories,
With the consciousness of my iniquity,
And the horror of that dead emptiness,
Which I meet in my house -
And the news of these crazy fun,
And the blessed poison of this cup,
And caresses (forgive me, Lord)
A dead but sweet creature...
Mother's shadow won't call me
From now on, it’s late, I hear your voice,
Calling me, I acknowledge the efforts
Save me... old man, go in peace;
But damned be whoever follows you!
Bravo, bravo! worthy chairman!
Here's a sermon for you! let's go! let's go!
Matilda's pure spirit is calling you!
(rises)
Swear to me, raised to heaven
Withered, pale hand - leave
In the coffin is a forever silent name!
Oh, if only from her immortal eyes
Hide this sight! Me once
She considered pure, proud, free -
And I knew heaven in my arms...
Where I am? Holy child of light! I see
I am where my fallen spirit goes
It won't reach anymore...
He's crazy -
He's raving about his buried wife!
Let's go, let's go...
My father, for God's sake,
Leave me alone!
God bless you!
Sorry, my son.
Leaves. The feast continues. The Chairman remains immersed in deep thought.