And the silver month froze brightly over the silver age. “And the silver month froze brightly over the silver age And the silver month brightly

Slide1(Music is quiet)

The beginning of the 20th century gave such a number of talented poets that their number could be compared with a scattering of hundreds of stars on the black velvet of the night sky, and every second can be called the Mozart of verse.

The poets of the "Silver Age" are a whole constellation in the Russian national galaxy: Dmitry Merezhkovsky and his wife Zinaida Gippius - Anna Akhmatova and Nikolai Gumilev, Valery Bryusov, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Sergei Gorodetsky, young Boris Pasternak and Marina Tsvetaeva, Osip Mandelstam and Sergei Yesenin, Andrey Bely and Alexander Blok, Konstantin Balmont - this Paganini of verse and Igor Severyanin - officially recognized as the king of poets. The list of glorious names could be continued.

Slide 2 Poets form a multitude literary directions- symbolism, acmeism, futurism, imagism. Some of them in their creative development changed their attitude to the world, social phenomena and ideas about their purpose. Their divine poetic gift remained unchanged, thanks to which they brought the verse in a poetic sense to perfection: the sound, all the colors of the world and all the subtle shades of feelings acquired a musicality unheard of until now.

If the poetry of the Silver Age is presented as a multivolume, then today we open only the first page of it - the preface.

Slide3 The Silver Age ... Creative inspiration, bursting into a bright flame, did not go out in 1917, but went deep into the depths, disappeared in the ashes from the hurricane of history. An interrupted soul, a suppressed word, an unfinished song ... In the new 21st century, the poets of the Silver Age are with us again.

Slide 4- Saint Petersburg. Liteiny, 24 - Muruzi's house. Zinaida Gippius with Dmitry Merezhkovsky lived in this house for many years. The Merezhkovsky salon was one of the most famous literary collections of St. Petersburg in the Silver Age.

Slide 5 -"Muruzi's House" played the same role that Vyach's "Tower" later played. Yves. Ivanova.

Slide 6 - Not only writers and poets, but also artists, philosophers, everyone who was not indifferent to culture visited the Muruzi house at the Merezhkovskys'.

Slide 7- The famous tower of Vyacheslav Ivanov. This house will become one of the centers where the poets of St. Petersburg will gather. They will argue for days about the life and the appointment of the poet. The poet, who, in their opinion, played a large role in the universe.

Slide-7 - Popova I. It was in V. Ivanov's tower. We read poetry. They got drunk from poetry then more than from wine. The tower looked out onto the roof of a neighboring house, and one could see the pale gray night sky, without the moon and stars, as it happens on white Petersburg nights, and the tall, thin figure of A. Blok, who reads in his monotonous, passionately immortal voice slowly and painfully poetic beauty "Stranger". All the blood in me stopped when, after the famous line “with spirits and mists, she sits at the window,” this enveloping A was replaced by a magical E.
and are told by ancient legends
HER MAGIC SILKS ...

(All enter) Slide-9 A. More than 100 years ago, on the eve of the new year 1912 in St. Petersburg in the basement of the 2nd house of the Dashkovs, an artistic cafe, an art cabaret "Stray Dog", was opened. The fame of the cafe is surprisingly scandalous, legendary came from a combination of the modesty of the premises and the highest concentration of brilliant talents: Anna Akhmatova, Nikolai Gumilyov, Osip Mandelstam, Vladimir Mayakovsky - the list is inexhaustible .

Everything together

There is a basement in the second yard,
There is a dog shelter in it.
Everyone who got here -

Just a stray dog.
But that is pride, but that is honor,
To get into that basement! Woof! - 2 times-

(they put tables, chairs on the stage, cover the tablecloths) everyone dances to the music

Slide10 Video Cafe "Stray Dog" song by A. Vertinsky "Magnolia" sounds. Popova I. The abandoned cellar, which once served as a wine cellar, has been remarkably transformed. The walls were decorated with manuscripts, the architect Fomin built a huge fireplace with his own hand. At the outer doors there was a knocker and a board, on which everyone who entered had to knock.

Michael: "Stray Dog" - a living cultural monument of the Silver Age.

Andrey: The "Golden Age" is the sunny age of the 19th century poets.

Inga: Silver - moonlit blues, rapid flowering and anticipation of the imminent collapse of the poets of the 20th century.

M .: The moon, according to ancient mythology, is a symbol of damage and inequality.

A.: True poetry - love, courage and sacrifice - Frederico Garcia Lorca

AND.: Today we are back at the Stray Dog

Many of them lacked the humble dignity of 19th century classics. Their striving for self-affirmation, exaltation and self-praise cannot but cause a smile.
Slide-11 Scene №1- at the table
AND.: - Oh, gentlemen, how you want refined, sublime, refined. I would like to revel in the music of poetry lines!
M.: Excuse me, madam! Lilac ice cream! Lilac ice cream!
Anatoly: Pineapples in champagne! / 2 times /
A.: Champagne on the menu! / 2 times /
M.: I drank the dreams of violets violet phial ...
N.: Oh my God! Whose lines are these? Who is author?
A.: How, you don't know? This is the king of poets - I. Severyanin!
N.: Northerner?
AND.: Northerner?
- Se-ve-ry-nin ...

Champagne power in the poet seethed,
At the meeting with him, the public poured a shaft,
And the eyes of the virgin caressed the poet,
And the lamps burst with applause.
February 27, 1918 in the hall Polytechnic Museum The northerner was listened to in complete silence, subdued by the energy of the rhythms and the melody of the stanzas.
A.: When the poet finished reading, the audience burst into applause and shouts of delight. After the votes were counted, it was announced: King of Poets - I. Severyanin, 2nd place - V. Mayakovsky, 3rd place - K. Balmont

Slide-12 (hammer knocking, enters) Northerner: A. Tatarchuk

From now on my cloak is violet,
Beretta velvet in silver.
I am elected the king of poets
To the envy of the boring midges.
Only me delight and adoration
And the glory of the spicy incense
To my love and song -
Unattainable verses
I'm so great and so sure
I'm so convinced of myself
That I will forgive everyone and every faith
I will give my respectful bow.
In my soul impetuosity of greetings
Uncountable number.
I am elected the king of poets
Let it be light for the subjects
(The northerner sits down in a chair)
Scene 2(Ladies and gentlemen at the tables)
AND.: Why did the crowd praise the poet? What did she want to hear?
N.: Ah, madam, they demanded of him to “popularize delights,” no one was interested in his “universal soul.” He entered and saw the guests drinking wine, reclining on velvet, inhaling lilies. And the poet put on a mask, hid behind a shield of irony and self-irony ...
Participants bring masks to their faces.
Severyanin-Tatarchuk A.
In tuxedos, tried and tested chic, high-society rumors
In the prince's drawing-room, they turned their heads, serving their faces:
I smiled tightly, remembering sacredly about gunpowder.
Boredom exploded with an unexpectedly neopoetic motive.
Every line is a slap in the face. My voice is entirely a mockery.
Rhymes are made up of cookies. It seems the language is assonance.
I despise you ardently, your dull Lordships,
And despising, I count on the worldwide resonance.
Dim your Lordships! At the time of the Severyanin
You should know that both Blok and Balmont were behind Pushkin.
A.: The most intimate, sincere, naked openly splashed out, could not resist! Finally, he slapped his listeners in the face, and they, in the heat of enthusiasm, did not even notice that they were being frankly bullied!
AND.: With what skill it is written! Think about it, listen carefully to this brilliant pun: "I despise you, Your Lordships!" The tragedy of the Severyanin consisted in the fact that this almost obscene mocking confession was not noticed in those days, they thought: he was joking, teasing on purpose. Everything was forgiven to the beloved.
All in chorus

Take off your mask, poet!
Take off your mask, king!
(participants take off their masks)
Slide-13 Zholnerovich A.- I. Severyanin "Their way of life":
Than these same ones live
What's on a pair of legs?
Drink and eat, eat and drink -
And in this life they find meaning ...
Inflate, cash in, rob,
Corrupt, humiliate, make it pain ...
What other passion they have:
After all, that's enough for them!
And these, on a pair of legs,
So called people
"Live for themselves" ... and the name Blok
For them, mired in vile fornication
A senseless, ridiculous syllable.
Severyanin - A. Zholnerovich -
Do not envy your friend if he is richer
If he is handsomer, if he is smarter.
May his wealth, may his luck
Your sandals won't wear off the straps.
Move more cheerful on your way
Smile wider at his success.
Maybe bliss is on your doorstep
And, perhaps, need and cry await him
Cry him with a tear! Laugh with a loud laugh!
Feel full of heart inside and out
Do not hinder your friend from rejoicing in success:
This is a crime! This is a super-vice!

Slide-14 M .: It is also indisputable that the star of the first magnitude in the constellation of poets of the Silver Age was Alexander Blok... Admiration for him and his work was universal, according to the recollections of K. Chukovsky, magnetism emanated from no one so clearly, so perceptibly.

Inga. Words and lines line up and seem to be carried away on a musical wave. In the soundless silence, images appear in which bitterness and delight, hopeless melancholy and joyful amazement at the miracle of beauty merge.
It is difficult to imagine a woman who would not fall in love with him. He read his poems in a sad, offended and even slightly contemptuous voice.
A.: Love blossomed in the lips
And in the early sadness of tears,
And I was in pink chains
Women have it many times.
He was approached with verses by Z. Gippius, A. Akhmatova, M. Tsvetaeva.

Slide-15 M. Tsvetaeva: Popova I.

Your name- bird in hand,
Your name is a piece of ice on your tongue
One - only lip movement
Your name is 5 letters.
The ball caught on the fly
Silver bell in the mouth.
Your name - oh, you can't! -
Your name is kisses in the eyes
Into the gentle string of motionless eyelids,
Your name is a kiss in the snow.
Key, icy, blue sip ...
With your name - deep sleep
It appeared to us - the whole area wide
Holy name Alexander Blok.

Slide 16(Video Night, street, pharmacy)

Slide-17 M .: The flaming and bitter mountain ash became a symbol of Tsvetaeva's fate, also “bitter, flaming with creativity and constantly threatening oblivion in winter.”
Tsvetaeva's poetry is called "the poetry of her soul!" In May 1913, in the Crimea, in Koktebel, Marina created a now widely known poem without a title, which became a kind of prediction.

Medvedeva N. reads a poem M. Tsvetaeva

To my poems written so early

That I didn’t know that I was a poet,

Bursting like spray from a fountain

Like sparks from rockets

Burst in like little devils

In the sanctuary, where sleep and incense,

To my poems about youth and death,

Unread poetry! -

Scattered in the dust of the shops

(Where no one took them and does not take them!),

To my poems, like precious wines,

It will be its turn.

A. Marina Tsvetaeva's poems are melodic, sincere and enchanting, composers constantly turn to them, and then they turn into romances of amazing beauty.

Slide-18 video - "Under the caress of a plush blanket" from the movie Cruel Romance

M .: Tsvetaeva is a poet of "the ultimate truth of feelings."
Her poems are surprisingly modern because they preached eternal values.
Slide-19 "I like that you are not sick with me ..."

Slide-20 Tsvetaeva: Inga

Yesterday I looked into my eyes
And now - everything looks sideways!
Yesterday I sat before the birds, -
All larks today are crows!
I'm stupid and you're smart
Alive, and I'm dumbfounded.
About the cry of women of all time:
"My dear, what have I done to you ?!"
And her tears - water, and blood -
Water, - in blood, washed in tears!
Not a mother, but a stepmother - Love:
Do not expect judgment or mercy.
They take away cute ships
The white road leads them away ...
And the groan stands along the whole earth:

Yesterday I was lying at my feet!
Equalized with the Chinese state!
I unclenched both hands at once, -
Life has dropped out - a rusty penny!
Infanticide on trial
I’m standing there, dumb, timid.
I'll tell you in hell:
"My dear, what have I done to you?"
I will ask a chair, I will ask a bed:
"For what, for what do I endure and suffer?"
"Kissed - to wheel:
Kiss the other, "they answer.
I taught to live in the very fire,
I threw it myself - into the icy steppe!
That's what you, dear, did to me!
My dear, what have I done to you?
I know everything - do not contradict!
Sighted again - not a mistress!
Where love recedes
There comes Death the Gardener.
Itself - what a tree to shake! -
On time, the ripe apple falls ...
Forgive me for everything, for everything
My dear, what have I done to you?

Sounds improvisation of the song "Besame mucho" Couples dancing to the music

M. presenter: And at this time, millions of states appear, as if out of thin air, banks, music halls, magnificent restaurants are being built, where people stun themselves with music, reflection of mirrors, light, champagne, half-naked women.

Slide-21 -A .: Russian Sappho - A. Akhmatova.
All the secrets and secrets of poetry were subject to her. Her entry into literature was like a triumphal march.
M .: The divine uniqueness of the personality ... was emphasized by its stunning beauty. One look at her was breathtaking. Tall, dark-haired, dark-skinned, slender and incredibly flexible, with the bottomless green eyes of a snow leopard, she has been painted, painted with paints, sculpted in plaster and marble for half a century, and has been photographed by many, starting with Amadeo Modigliani.
N. Medvedeva (A. Akhmatova) gets up from the chair and reads a poem:
Song last meeting

So helplessly my chest grew cold

But my steps were easy.

I'm on right hand put on

Left hand glove.

It seemed that there were many steps,

And I knew - there are only three!

Autumn whispers between the maples

He asked: "Die with me!"

I am deceived by my dull,

Changeable "evil fate".

I replied: “Darling, darling!

And me too. I'll die with you ... "

This is the song of the last meeting.

I looked at the dark house.

Only in the bedroom were candles burning

Indifferent yellow fire.

After reading the poem to the music, Gumilev approaches Akhmatova, sitting down next to her on a chair.(Abdullaev A.)
Slide-22 А .: Strong personality Nikolai Gumilyov, constantly tried to find a place not only in poetry, but also in life, then going on trips to Africa, then going to the front during the First World War, then challenging the authorities ... Tireless, passionate, wise and young in his naivety, brooding, lonely warrior.
Slide 23 Video clip Giraffe

N. (Medvedeva) Akhmatova, sitting in a chair, leaning forward, reads a poem

« Love"

Now like a snake, curled up in a ball,

At the very heart he conjures

That whole days dove

Coos on the white window.

Then it will flash in the bright frost,

Feels like Levkoy in the slumber.

But faithfully and secretly leads

From joy and from peace.

Knows how to sob so sweetly

In the prayer of a yearning violin

And it's scary to guess her

In a still unfamiliar smile.

Gumilyov comes to the fore and reads a poem, addressing Akhmatova.

Slide-24 -Ya and you - Abdullaev A.

Yes, I know I'm not a match for you,

I came from another country

And I don't like the guitar

And the savage melody of zurna.

Not in halls and salons

Dark dresses and jackets -

I read poetry to dragons

Waterfalls and clouds.

I love - like an Arab in the desert

Falls to water and drinks

Not a knight in a painting

That looks at the stars and waits.

And I will not die in bed,

With a notary and a doctor,

And in some wild crack,

Drowned in thick ivy

To enter not in everything open,

Protestant, tidied up paradise

And to where the robber, the tax collector

And the harlot will shout: "Get up!"

Verse.Akhmatova "You are an apostate" cheat. Mytnik P. 2AE

Akhmatova-Medvedeva N.

I learned to just live wisely

Look up to the sky and pray to God

And wander for a long time before the evening,

To tire out unnecessary anxiety.

When burdocks rustle in the ravine

And there is a bunch of yellow-red mountain ash,

I compose funny poems

About perishable and beautiful life.

I'm coming back. Licks my palm

Fluffy cat, purrs more tenderly,

And the fire lights up bright

On the turret of the lake sawmill.

Only occasionally does the silence cut through

The cry of a stork flying to the roof.

And if you knock on my door,

I guess I won't even hear.

Poem. Akhmatova "Garden" reads Blyudenov B. 2ME

Slide-25 Severyanin: Zholnerovich A. (While reading verse. Mayakovsky V. (Dylyuk Y.) goes to the middle of the stage, addresses those sitting at the tables)

My friend, the Great Mayakovsky,
In the old days, a mischievous man
He loved teasing the crowd
Sticking out her tongue.
I wore a wide yellow jacket,
Then he put on a cherry coat,
It seemed to call: "Disaster,
Bourgeois, your dank darkness! "
In bulky lines, -
Now half a day, now an inch, -
He generously invested reproaches
To the one who called the poems "rhyme"
Its rolling, tribunal,
Bass bending the crowd
Thundered all over the greasy country,
Where is the priest, the gendarme and the swineherd.

Mayakovsky: Dylyuk Yu.

Your thought,
Dreaming on a softened brain
Like a withered footman on a greasy couch
I will tease about the bloody heart flap.
I scoff, sassy and caustic.
I have not one in my soul gray hair,
And there is no senile tenderness in her.
The world is huge with the power of voice,
I'm coming - handsome
Twenty-two years old.
Delicate!
You do not lay your love on the violin,
Love on the timpani lays down rude
You can't turn yourself out like me,
To have only solid lips?
If you want - I will be mad from meat
And like the sky changing tones -
If you want, I will be immaculately gentle
Not a man, but a cloud in his pants!
Slide-26 Scene №3 Dialogue (those sitting at the tables shout out lines)

Mayakovsky: You there, in the third row, do not swing your gold tooth so menacingly. Sit down!

(To the man with the newspaper) And you put down your newspaper right now or leave the hall: this is not a reading room. Here they listen to me, not read.

Mayakovsky! Do you think we're all idiots?
Mayakovsky: Well, what are you? Why all? So far I see only one in front of me ...
- How much money will you get for tonight?
Mayakovsky: What do you care? You will not get a penny anyway. I'm not going to share with anyone ... Well - with, then ...
- As yours real surname?
Mayakovsky: To tell? Pushkin!
- Your poems are too topical. They will die tomorrow. You yourself will be forgotten. Immortality is not your destiny.
Mayakovsky: And you come back in 100 years, we'll talk there!
- Your poems are incomprehensible to me.
Mayakovsky: Nothing, your children will understand them!
- No, and my children will not understand!
Mayakovsky: Why are you so convinced that your children will go into you? Maybe their mother is smarter, and they will be like her.
- Why do you praise yourself like that?
Mayakovsky: My classmate at the gymnasium Shakespeare always advised: Say only good things about yourself, your friends will say bad things about you.
- My friend and I read your poems and did not understand anything!
Mayakovsky: You need to have smart comrades.
- Your poems do not excite, do not warm, do not charge.
Mayakovsky: My poems are not the sea, not the stove and not the plague.
- Why do you wear a ring on your finger? It doesn't suit you.
Mayakovsky: That's because it is not to the face, and I wear it on my finger, not in the nose!
A. presenter: Everyone knew Mayakovsky - a rebel, a rude man, but this is an illusion. First of all, he was an endlessly lonely, suffering person. The only thing he needs in life is the love of a woman - reckless, deep, all-consuming and, most importantly, mutual.

V. Mayakovskyreads a poem"Listen!"

Listen!
After all, if the stars are lit -

So - someone wants them to be?
Means - someone calls these spit
a pearl?
And, straining
in blizzards of midday dust,
rushes to god,
afraid that he is late
crying
kisses his sinewy hand,
asks -
so that there must be a star! -
swears -
will not bear this starless torment!
And then
anxious walks
but outwardly calm.
Says to someone:
"Isn't it okay for you now?"
Not scary?
Yes?!"
Listen!
After all, if the stars
light up -
means - someone needs it?
It means - it is necessary,
so that every evening
over the rooftops
at least one star lit up ?!

M .: 2 poles of love - worship and cruelty, naivety and swagger. Mask. 2 poles - poetry and love, which merged into one broken line - life. Art was called tragedy, tragedy was called "Great Mayakovsky". Contemporaries treated in Mayakovsky difficult. Someone was annoyed by his futuristic delights, while others were jealous of his fame. But many appreciated him insanely - a gentle and original poetic language.
Slide 27 - Inga. (Poem. Severyanin):

He ran into life as a Ryazan simpleton
Blue-eyed, curly, fair-haired,
With a perky nose and cheerful taste,
Attracted by the sun to the delights of life
But soon the riot threw its dirty lump
In the radiance of the eyes. Poisoned by the bite
The serpent of rebellion, spoke evil of Jesus.
I tried to make friends with the pub
In the circle of robbers and prostitutes,
Languishing with blasphemous jokes,
He realized that the tavern was rotten to him ...
And again opened to God, repenting, the canopy
Of a frantic soul
Pious Russian bully.
Slide-28 Sarogin M. - Yesenin - reads the poem "Weaved on the lake ..."

Dylyuk Y.-Mayakovsky: Why are you dragging around the salons, Yesenin?

M.: You look, I will like it and they will lead to people.
A.: Yesenin! Your poems are clean, fresh, vociferous, have not experienced such pleasure for a long time
Slide-29 of the video for S. Yesenin's song "I have one fun left ..." Yesenin's tragedy is that he, who felt his poetic talent, could not help but see how the ordinary pressed living soul his divine gift... Open to himself, he opened himself to other people, but often this openness turned into cruel blows and non-healing wounds of the soul for the poet himself.
M. - Poetry is strong in individuals. There was symbolism, but Blok, Bryusov, Bely remained from it. Futurism is gone, but Mayakovsky remains. There was Imagism, but Yesenin remained. There was acmeism, but Akhmatova and Gumilyov remained. The simple truth is becoming clearer that without individuality the stream of poetry is clearly incomplete.

Vasinsky V. (N. Gumilev "The Sixth Sense").

Lovely wine in love with us

And good bread

what goes into the oven for us,

And the woman who was given.

Exhausted at first,

us to enjoy.

But what do we do with the pink dawn

Over the chilling skies

Where is silence and unearthly peace,

What should we do

with immortal verses. ...

Neither eat, nor drink, nor kiss -

The moment runs uncontrollably

And we break our hands, but again

Doomed to go all by, by.

Like a boy, forgetting his games.

Sometimes he watches the girl's bathing

And knowing nothing about love,

All are tormented by a mysterious desire ..

Our spirit screams, flesh is exhausted,

Giving birth to an organ for the sixth sense.

A... They so dreamed of making their readers the heroes of a "strong, fun and evil planet"

I AM l jubilee of the chosen one of freedom,

Navigator and shooter,

Ah, the waters sang to him so loudly

And the clouds were jealous.

M. Shots in a duel killed Pushkin and Lermontov, punctured by a bullet, Mayakovsky's heart stopped beating, insane cruelty cut short the life of Nikolai Gumilyov ... How many poets Russia lost prematurely!

AND. How to resurrect them! How to revive? Our touch to his poems, our memory of them, can truly become living water. Only then will the "gardens of the soul" of the dead poets blossom and surprise us with their beauty and nobility.

Vasinsky V.("Gardens of the Soul" N. Gumilyov).

The gardens of my soul are always patterned

The winds are so fresh and quiet in them,

They have golden sand and black marble,

Deep, transparent pools,

The plants in them, like dreams, are extraordinary.

Birds turn pink like water in the morning

And - who will take a hint of an ancient secret? -

In them a girl in a wreath of a great priestess ...

I don't look at the world of running lines

My dreams are only submissive to the eternal.

Let the sirocco rage in the desert

The gardens of my soul are always patterned.

Slide 30

M.: The new century of Russia was great
The age of victories and achievements.
A.: The new century of Russia was terrible
20th century
The age of war and repression.
AND.: The new century of Russia was beautiful
20th century
Age of poetry and love!
All in chorus: What will our new century be like? 21st century? (General bow)

The word, the definition, the epithet silver hovered in the air, appeared in different places.

And the silver month is bright
Above silver age froze.

So A.A. Akhmatova in "Poem Without a Hero" retrospectively determined the time of her youth. Earlier, the philosopher and critic R.I. Ivanov-Razumnik (1925), poet and memoirist V.A. Piast (1929), poet and critic N.O. Otsup (1933). "On the Parnassus of the Silver Age" - the artist S.K. Makovsky (1964). Today the definition can be found on the covers of many collections of poems, articles, memoirs: "Russian poetry of the Silver Age", "Sonnet of the Silver Age", "Memories of the Silver Age" ...
The name of the century was invented by the ancient Greeks, who divided the existence of mankind into four periods: gold, silver, copper and iron. The Silver Age in Hesiod and Ovid was contrasted with the happy and carefree golden age as an era of degradation and decline, although even more cruel centuries went on. The poetic mythology of the Greeks became history among the Romans: the first century was called silver. AD, when the satirist Juvenal, the author of the novel "Satyricon" Petronius, and the historian Tacitus were doing.
The Silver Age in the modern sense is approximately three decades at the turn of the century, from the early 1890s to the early 1920s. (Sometimes these boundaries are narrowed or expanded on both sides for another decade.) Thus, between the “golden age” that remained in the same place, and the new Serebryanny, a gaping arose, an era without a name from Gogol to Chekhov, the time of great Russian prose.
The discoverers of the new era initially did not let everyone into it. The Silver Age was understood primarily as the era of Russian modernism, the time of Symbolism and Acmeism, Blok, Bryusov, Akhmatova, Mandelstam. But gradually this circle expanded, it included almost all writers who worked in this era. From an ideological, aesthetic characteristic, the Silver Age turned into a designation of a chronological segment, a contradictory cultural era, which also included I. Bunin, M. Gorky, L. Andreev - writers different directions, often polemicizing among themselves, united, nevertheless, by the spirit of the times, gravitation towards the "damned questions" posed by the new era.
“Social, civic themes, which are in the focus of attention of previous generations, are decisively pushed aside by existential themes - Life, Death, God; to seriously discuss issues of social injustice "in a world where death exists," wrote the Acmeists, is to burst into open door”(Gasparov ML Poetics of the“ Silver Age ”, 1993).
In this expanded understanding, the Silver Age includes both Russian religious philosophy (N.A. Berdyaev, S.N. Bulgakov, Lev Shestov), and modernist trends in painting (the associations "Jack of Diamonds" and " Donkey tail”), And music (A. N. Scriabin, S. V. Rachmaninov), and theatrical searches (productions by V. E. Meyerhold, design activities of L. S. Bakst and A. N. Benois).
The Silver Age turns out to be not a direction, but a historical strip, a steppe, through which everyone was forced to pass: those who agreed and disagreed with the weather established in it, who later found themselves in different places and, therefore, differently assessing the path traveled. Stepun "in the decade from 1905 to 1915, Russia experienced a very significant cultural upsurge." “For several years of this friendly work, the appearance of Russian culture has undergone significant changes. Under the influence of religious and philosophical thought and the new art of the Symbolists, the consciousness of an ordinary Russian intellectual, brought up on homegrown classics of social and journalistic thought, quickly expanded both in depth and in breadth. Russian painting, freed from itinerant movement, blossomed at the World of Art exhibitions. Musical talents grew stronger - Scriabin, Medtner, Rachmaninov. From achievement to achievement, paving new paths, the Russian theater rose to unattainable heights. "

Chapter three

And under the arch on Galernaya ...
A. Akhmatova

In Petersburg we will meet again
As if we buried the sun in it.
O. Mandelstam

That was Last year...
M. Lozinsky

Petersburg in 1913. Lyrical digression: the last memory of Tsarskoe Selo. The wind, either remembering or prophesying, mutters:

Christmastide was warmed by bonfires,
And carriages fell from bridges,
And the whole mourning city sailed
For an unknown purpose,
Along the Neva or against the current, -
Just away from your graves.
An arch was black on the Galernaya,
In Summer, the weather vane sang thinly,
And the silver month is bright
Frozen over the Silver Age.
Because on all roads,
Because to all the thresholds
A shadow was slowly approaching
Vteer tore posters from the wall,
Smoke danced squatting on the roof
And the lilac smelled of the graveyard.
And sworn by the Queen Avdotya,
Dostoevsky and possessed
The city went into its own fog.
And looked out again from the darkness
An old Petersburg man and a reveler,
As the drum beat before execution ...
And always in the frosty darkness,
Pre-war, prodigal and formidable,
There was some kind of future hum
But then he was heard fainter,
He hardly disturbed the soul
And he was drowning in the snowdrifts of the Neva.
Like in the mirror of a terrible night
And rages and does not want
Recognizing yourself as a person
And along the legendary embankment
Not a calendar was approaching -
The Present Twentieth Century.

Now I would rather go home
Cameron Gallery
Into the icy mysterious garden
Where the waterfalls are silent
Where all nine will be glad to me
How glad you were once.
There, beyond the island, there, beyond the garden
Don't we meet our gaze
Of our former clear eyes
Won't you tell me again
The word that triumphs over death
And the answer to my life?

Chapter four and final

Love passed and became clear
And mortal traits are close.
Sun. TO.

Corner of the Champ de Mars. House built in early XIX centuries by the brothers Adamini. It will be hit by a direct bomb in 1942. A high bonfire is burning. The sound of the bell ringing from the Savior on Spilled Blood is heard. On the field behind a blizzard is the ghost of a palace ball. In the interval between these sounds, Silence itself says:

Who froze at the faded windows
Whose heart has a "fawn curl"
Who has darkness before his eyes? -
“Help, it's not too late!
Never are you so frosty
And it was not a strange night! "
A wind full of Baltic salt
Ball of snowstorms on the Champ de Mars
And the invisible ringing of hooves ...
And immeasurable anxiety
Who has little left to live
Who only asks for death from God
And who will be forgotten forever.
After midnight he wanders under the windows,
He mercilessly leads
A dim beam of a corner lamp, -
And he waited. Slender mask
On the way back from Damascus
Returned home ... not alone!
Someone is with her "no wicked and nazv and me" ...
Unambiguous parting
Through the slanting flame of a bonfire
He saw the buildings collapsed.
And in response, a snippet of sobs:
“You are the Dove, the sun, sister! -
I'll leave you alive
But you will be my widow
And now...
It's time to say goodbye! "

It smells of perfume on the playground
And a dragoon cornet with verses
And with a senseless death in my chest
Will call if you have the courage ...
He spends the last moment,
To praise you.
Look:
Not in the damned Mazury swamps,
Not on the blue Carpathian heights ...
He is on your doorstep!
Across.
God forgive you!

(How many deaths went to the poet,
Silly boy: he chose this, -
The first he did not tolerate grievances,
He didn't know on what threshold
It stands and what kind of road
A view will open in front of him ...)

It's me - your old conscience
I found a burnt tale
And to the edge of the window sill
In the house of the deceased
Put -
and tiptoed away ...

Afterword

Everything is in order: the poem lies
And, as is typical for her, she is silent.
Well, what if the topic breaks out,
He knocks on the window with his fist, -
And will respond from afar
To the call this terrible sound -
Bubbling, moaning and screaming
And the vision of crossed arms? ..

Slide1(Music is quiet)

Slide 2 Poets form many literary trends - symbolism, acmeism, futurism, imagism. Some of them, in their creative development, changed their attitude to the world, social phenomena and ideas about their purpose. Their divine poetic gift remained unchanged, thanks to which they brought the verse in a poetic sense to perfection: the sound, all the colors of the world and all the subtle shades of feelings acquired a musicality unheard of until now.