The bronze horseman егэ английский текст

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Достопримечательности Санкт-Петербурга — Медный всадник

The Bronze Horseman

(A Tale of St. Petersburg)

‘The Neva at St Petersburg in the Winter’
Theodor Hildebrandt, 1844
The Rijksmuseum

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Translated by A. S. Kline © Copyright 2021 All Rights Reserved

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Contents

• Foreword
• Introduction
• Part One
• Part Two

Foreword

The incidents described in the story are based on fact. The details of the flood (1824) are taken from contemporary records. The curious may refer to the account (1826) given by Vasily Nikolayevitch Berkh, geographer and historian.

Introduction

On that shore, wave-swept and empty,

Deep in thought, he stood; intently

Gazing, seawards, while the strong

River, wide before him, slowly

Drew but the one frail skiff along.

All down its length, the marshy coast

A few moss-covered huts could boast,

The Chekhonts’ meagre dwelling-site;

While the mist-veiled land played host

To forests shrouded from the light,

Where pine-trees sighed. ‘From here’, he thought,

‘We’ll threaten the bold Swede and, here,

A city shall be built to thwart

Our haughty neighbour, dwelling near.

Nature has destined her to be

A window on Europe, while we

Shall stand, as firm, beside the wave;

And flags of every land shall fly,

Offshore, and know the land thereby,

That these long-unknown waters lave.’

A hundred years ago – and now,

A youthful city, rich in beauty,

Wood and swamp tamed by his vow,

Rises, wondrously and proudly,

Where once the Finnish fisherman,

That sad foster-child of Nature,

On these flat shores, for a lifespan

Cast his frail net o’er the water;

And, here, the land displays a host

Of palaces; they line the coast,

A throng of towers, fair and slender,

And, from the corners of the earth,

The ships come, jostling, to berth,

To view the city in her splendour;

The Neva, dressed in granite, flows

Beneath strong bridges; gardens, there,

Adorn her isles, her beauties share;

Dark green against blue water shows.

Our capital, so much the younger,

Makes ancient Moscow seem faded,

As beside a new tsarina,

A widowed empress seems jaded.

I love you, Peter’s creation,

I love you, gracious and austere;

The Neva’s powerful libation,

Twixt granite banks, so pure and clear;

Your cast-iron patterned railings;

Your pensive nights of moonless light,

Transparent dusk’s endless evenings,

When, lamp-less, I yet read and write,

While the sleeping buildings show

Still, pale, above the streets below,

The Admiralty spire still bright;

While, granting one half-hour to night,

One half-light yields to another,

Refusing to allow the dark

Those last gilded clouds to smother,

And brightening still the silent park.

I love your winters, harsh with frost,

The still air, girls’ faces redder

Than crimson roses, to their cost,

The sledges raced along the river;

Loud noise, bright lights, the ball, a game

Of cards at evening, idle drinking,

The punch-bowl wreathed in its blue flame,

The hiss of charged glasses clinking.

I love to view a martial vigour

Stir the Field of Mars, the beauty,

Monotonous, of infantry,

The swaying cavalry, ever

In harmony, banners held high,

All torn and tattered from the fight,

Brass helmets, glinting in the light;

Battle-scarred, proudly they go by.

I love you, warlike capital,

The rising smoke, the cannons’ roar,

When our Tsarina adds a mortal

Son to the Imperial store.

Or Russia, triumphing once more,

Defeats the broken enemy;

Or when, its blue ice fracturing,

The Neva bears it to the sea,

Rejoicing in the birth of Spring.

Stand proudly, Peter’s great city,

The elements, now tamed, at last

At peace with you; and, finally,

Let Finnish enmity be past

Those waves in their captivity

Still bear for you; let them forget

To stir, in their vain malice fret,

Or trouble Peter’s endless sleep!

A dreadful time there was…I keep

The memory of it fresh, as ever;

My friends, a story I shall tell,

Those sorry days I’ll remember,

A tale of woe, as it befell.

Part One

November, chill, autumnal, sad,

Breathed over darkened Petrograd,

The waters splashing, noisily,

Against the borders of the city,

The Neva like a patient, weary,

Tossing and turning, restlessly.

It was already late, the rain

Beat angrily against the pane,

The howling wind blew, mournfully,

When, home from his dear friends, there came

A young man, Yevgeny by name…

At least I’ll call him so for, truly

It’s one I know, from many a line,

And then the sound of it seems fine,

It flows from off my pen indeed.

His surname, though, we shall not need;

Yet, in many a day gone by,

Perhaps its light might well have shone,

It might have caught Karamzin’s eye,

One that some tale was founded on,

Neglected now by fame or rumour,

Remembered only in Kolomna.

Our hero is a clerk, serves humbly,

Nor boasts he of nobility,

Of his dead ancestors thinks not,

Nor ancient times, now long forgot.

Once home, Yevgeny (or Eugene!)

Removed his coat, undressed, lay down,

But failed to sleep, in thoughts did drown,

Of where he was, and where he’d been,

And of what else? That he was poor,

Forced to labour, for evermore,

To maintain his independence,

His honour, and his self-respect;

That God was miserly, and hence

Both brains and riches did reject

In his endowment; that there were

Fine folk that seemed much happier,

Dull-minded sloths, idle but blessed!

That he had worked a scant two years;

That this rain, adding to his fears,

Would never end; as for the rest,

That the river rose full quickly,

The bridges they’d closed, so swiftly,

That he’d not his Parasha see,

It seemed, for some two days or three.

And here Yevgeny sighed deeply,

And then he dreamed, like any poet:

‘Marriage? Why not undergo it?

Though there’s every difficulty;

I’m young, I’m healthy, and I’m quite

Prepared to labour day and night;

I’ll find a place for us to stay,

Where Parasha shall be content,

Simple, humble, not much to pay.

A year or two of effort spent –

I’ll win promotion then; while she

I’ll trust to bear our family,

Raise the children, without fuss…

And so, we’ll live, and so we’ll die,

Hand in hand; and, tear in eye,

Our grandchildren will bury us…’

Thus, he dreamt. And full of sorrow

All that night he dozed, and wished

The storm-wind was not howling so,

And that the rain would not insist

On beating on the window-pane,

So wrathfully…till finally

He closed his eyes. And now, the day’s

Pale light, once more, shone clearly,

Piercing through the night’s thick haze…

A dreadful dawn!

All night, the Neva,

Flowed to the sea, against the storm…

Its boiling waves, a mighty swarm,

Failing that sheer power to conquer…

By morning crowds had come to view,

Thronging the river-banks and shore,

The jets of spray, flung up anew,

From out the foaming water’s roar.

By Gulf winds now blocked and barred,

The Neva, seething, thwarted, angry,

Thus, driven back once more, fell hard

Upon her islands, flooded deeply.

The weather still increased in fury,

The swollen river, rushing loudly,

Churned and swirled, a violent cauldron,

And then, a beast run wild, swept on

Towards the city, while, before her,

She drove all things, till all around

Was vacancy while, underground,

The cellars filled; foul water poured

Through gratings, deeper yet it bored;

Till drowned Petropolis now stood,

Like Triton, waist-deep midst the flood.

Attack! Assault! Wave on wave heaves

Through the windows – bold as thieves

They enter – loose boats smash the panes.

A shroud of trays floats, midst remains

Of huts, the logs, and struts, and ridges,

Planks, and rails, of shattered bridges,

Trade goods, hoarded thriftily,

The flotsam of sad poverty,

While coffins from the graveyard sail

Along the streets! The people fear

God’s wrath, the Judgement Day is here.

Food, shelter, every hope, must fail!

Who will provide? In that dread year,

The late Tsar ruled still, Alexander,

Of great glory; now stunned, he stood,

On his balcony, o’er the flood,

And murmured: ‘No king can master

God’s own elements.’ Then, he sat,

And, with mournful gaze, surveyed

The chaos there below, all that

Broad lake the waters now had made,

To which the streets yet more conveyed,

Wide rivers flowing, round an island,

His palace, midst the water moored.

The Tsar spoke; his generals manned

Every last boat, and once aboard

Sailed the streets, both far and near,

Scorning danger, bringing rescue

To shoals of half-drowned people who

Were overwhelmed by loss and fear.

And there, where on Peter’s Square

A new-built mansion rose, just there,

Where on the lofty portico,

Two lions stand to guard the door,

As if alive, with upraised paw,

A cross clasped in his hands, just so,

Yevgeny, pale and full of woe,   

Sat on one creature’s marble back,

And fearless of the storm’s attack,

While fearing for his other, he

Heard not the wind’s cacophony,

Not seeing how the water rose

Washed at his soles, so greedily,

Nor felt the rain, in his sad pose,

His hat whipped from him, savagely;

His desperate gaze instead was fixed

On some far point, while angry waves

Rose from the depths and, raging, mixed,

Tearing the dead from out their graves,

And, mountainous, loomed up, on high,

Where wreckage floated neath the sky,

Drifting, aimless…Oh God, yes, there –

Close to the waves, not far from where,

A willow-tree, a broken fence,

A shabby hut, formed sole defence,

For a widow and her daughter,

His Parasha – was this a dream,

A mere dream, in which he sought her?

Or is our whole life, its bright gleam,

Only an empty dream, from birth;

High heaven’s jest against the Earth?

There he sat, like a man bewitched,

And to that marble creature hitched,

Unable to dismount! While, wide,

The water stretched on every side!

And, back turned to him, in its might,

Above the Neva’s angry course,

Upon its still unshaken height,

Its hand extended, on the right,

The great bronze idol on its horse.

Part Two

But now, sated with destruction,

And weary of blind arrogance,

The Neva ended its advance,

Proud of its indignant ruction,

Abandoning its prey; the action

Of a cut-throat band who pillage

Some poor unsuspecting village,

Is much the same; the pain, the blows,

The screaming, howling, thus it goes!…

Then burdened from their robbery,

Exhausted, fearing swift pursuit,

The bandits vanish with their loot,

Scattering their leavings, randomly.

The waters ebbed, the streets were free,

And Yevgeny, nigh rendered mute

By hope and anguish, fearfully,

Pursued the fast-receding Neva;

Yet, un-resigned, the angry river

Triumphing in its victory,

Still stirred and boiled furiously,

The waters foaming in their bed,

As if a flame beneath them seethed,

While heavily the river breathed,

Much like a steed from battle sped.

Yevgeny gazed, and spied a boat;

A godsend – whole, and still afloat;

He called to the carefree ferryman,

Who’d risk the treacherous water,

For a coin – ten-kopecks, silver –

And so, to the skiff Yevgeny ran.

Long time the skilful oarsman fought

The stormy waters, seeking land,

The daring voyager’s journey fraught

With danger; yet, tossed high and caught

By seething waves on either hand,

They reached the shore, at last.

Then he

Sought, through streets, once familiar,

And now all turned to one similar

Watery wasteland, sad to see!

On every side, soaked debris lies,

Damp ruins open to the skies;

Here stands a yawning façade, there

A shattered house, its walls laid bare,

Lapped by the waves; and all around

Corpses, as on some battleground.

Yevgeny, by his fears tormented

Wearied by thoughts too hard to bear,

Ran swiftly, like a man demented,

Headlong, through the streets, to where

Fate waited now, its face unshown,

As with some letter, closely sealed;

Here’s the Gulf, all will be known,

The cottage near, the truth revealed…

What’s this?

He halted, then retraced

His steps…turned…looked again…and faced

A willow tree, still standing – surely,

The gate was here once? No more; he

Circled quickly, mind full of care,

Struggling to comprehend it all,

Ran back and forth, and everywhere,

Beset by thoughts that must apall.

No sign of a hut could he see.

He struck his forehead, suddenly,

And laughed aloud.

Night fell swiftly;

Fog shrouded the shivering city;

Those left, with little hope of sleep,

Amongst themselves did vigil keep,

And spoke of the day past.

Dawn’s light,

Through pallid clouds, dull to the sight,

Glared on the capital, below

And lit the streets, now free of blight,

All things veiled in a crimson glow.

Many an ill once set aright,

Order, returned, dispelled the night;

The roads and pavements now were free,

Folk strolled there, unconcernedly,

Officialdom left for work once more,

While a brave merchant, with a store

Of wares the Neva failed to take,

Gathered whatever he’d not lost,

Ready to sell his stock, and make

His losses good, at his neighbour’s cost.

Now, stranded boats were carted off

From damp courtyards.

And Count Khvostov,

Poet beloved of the Muse,

Swiftly, in deathless verse, the news

Soon wrought, for every Romanov.

But as for my poor Yevgeny…

His troubled mind could not withstand

The shock dealt him so cruelly,

The mutinous waves on either hand

The Neva’s turmoil, the wind’s roar,

Rang in his ears and, all unmanned,

He wandered on that lonely shore,

Tormented by nightmarish thought.

A week, a month passed – unsought,

He returned to his rooms no more,

And his poor lodgings were acquired,

Soon rented, when the term expired,

To some poet; now, travelling light,

Oblivious to the world he strayed,

Sleeping beside the quays at night,

Of beggar’s scraps a meal he made.

He was a miserable sight;

Torn clothes his poverty displayed,

At every seam now torn and frayed;

At him, children threw their stones;

And since he wandered in the road,

Many a coachman lashed his bones;

Too dazed to notice, on he strode;

Despite the outward noise and glare,

Deaf to all but his own thought,

His own sad company he sought

An inner world of grief and care.

So, he dragged out his mortal span

Remaining, neither beast nor man,

Not this, nor that, without a place,

In this world or the next…

One night,

Caught in slumber’s rare embrace,

On the embankment, out of sight,

Beside the Neva, summer quite

Turned to autumn where he slept,

The gusting breeze a vigil kept,

A shadowy wave lapped the shore,

Like some petitioner at the door,

Unheard by justice, while the foam

Against the granite steps beat home.

The sleeper woke, the air was gloomy,

The chill wind sighed dejectedly,

Rain fell as, far-off, some sentry

Called, and up leapt our Yevgeny…

The past, the horrors he recalled,

He stumbled, hastily, appalled,

Along the quay, and suddenly

Halting, a wild look on his face,

Found himself beneath a stately

Mansion’s pillars; there, in place

As guards, as if alive, paws raised,

Sat two stone lions, unamazed,

And there, upon its granite height,

Above the Neva’s darkened course,

Its hand outstretched towards the night,

The great bronze idol on its horse.

Yevgeny shuddered. Fear had fled

His mind, and brought fresh clarity;

He knew that place, where, formerly,

The waves upon the storm had fed,

Angered, in their wild rebellion.

He knew the lions, and the mansion,

The square, and looming, motionless,

He, who with a will unbounded,

A city on the marshland founded;

His bronze head shrouded in darkness…

Fearsome, in the depths of night!

Upon that brow what thoughts alight!

What does that hidden power intend!

And, in that steed, what fiery force!

Where do you gallop to, proud horse?

Where will your upraised hooves descend?

O Lord of Fate, did you not, like this,

Raise Russia, on hind legs, to the sky,

Curbed by its iron bit, poised high

On the fearful brink of the abyss?

Our poor madman paced around,

Until his gaze the face unfurled

Of one who’d straddled half the world;

And there, before it, stood his ground.

His chest was tight, his brow was cold

Against the railing. Dark mists rolled

Across his sight; his blood boiling,

Yevgeny stood there, gloomily,

Before that proud bronze effigy,

With gritted teeth, his fists clenching,

As if possessed by some dark force,

‘Fine, O wondrous founder, truly!’ –

He muttered, shaking, vengefully –

‘Fine work!’ then, stumbling in his course,

He ran headlong, for suddenly,

It seemed to him, the mighty Tsar,

Had slowly turned his head, while, far

Within, deep fires flared, angrily…

He fled across the empty square,

Yet heard the sound, behind him there –

Much like the rumbling of thunder –

Of heavy hooves; the pavement, under

Him, rang loud, and seemed to move,

For lit by the pale moon, above,

His right hand stretched towards the sky,

Came on, apace, the Bronze Horseman,

On his swift horse, that loomed on high;

And, all night long, the poor madman,

No matter where he turned his feet,

Heard, in pursuit, the Bronze Horseman,

Behind his back, as great hooves beat.

From that moment on, whenever

He chanced to enter that same square,

Confusion filled his face; moreover,

He’d clutch his heart, in quiet despair,

And, swiftly, in guilty terror,  

As if admitting to some error,

Nor seeking now to raise his eyes,

He’d sidle past.

An island lies

A little way offshore, and there

Some fisherman may land his haul,

And dine at night; or some clerk call,

One Sunday, and its silence share.

Upon it not a grass-blade grows,

There the flood, one must suppose,

In its wide wanderings, to and fro,

Had cast aground a shattered hut,

That, once ashore, had then stayed put,

And lay, above the tidal flow,

Like a black bush, drowned and stranded.

A barge, last Spring, cast anchor there,

While a gang of workmen landed,

To load its timbers, dry and bare;

And at its threshold, there they found,

Our madman lying, cold and dead;

And raising him, at foot and head,

Buried him, in that sacred ground.

The End of ‘The Bronze Horseman’

Задание №8939.
Чтение. ЕГЭ по английскому

Прочитайте текст и заполните пропуски A — F частями предложений, обозначенными цифрами 1 — 7. Одна из частей в списке 1—7 лишняя.

Saint Petersburg

A city of palaces and museums, broad avenues and narrow canals, St. Petersburg’s short history is rich in architectural and artistic treasures. Alongside world-famous attractions such as the Hermitage and St. Isaac’s Cathedral, the city has a lot of equally interesting buildings ___ (A). St. Petersburg is considered to be Russia’s cultural capital. It reflects the country’s extraordinary fate like no other city.

St. Petersburg is a relatively young city, by both Russian and European standards, as ___ (B). Despite its short life, the city has a rich history. From the early days of Peter the Great to modern times, the city has always bustled with life and intrigue.

Lying across the delta of the Neva River, St. Petersburg, the Venice of the North, is a city ___ (C), some of which are well-known for their unique history. Bridges are an essential part of the city’s architectural make-up. Among the city’s over 500 bridges, there are numerous technological masterpieces. The centre of the city offers vast areas of green space, ___ (D).

St. Petersburg is a beautiful and fascinating holiday destination and one ___ (E). Whether to visit the city in a romantic and snowy Russian winter ___ (F), visitors will be spellbound by St. Petersburg’s culture and beauty.

1. that is built on hundreds of islands
2. or during the dazzling white nights in summer
3. it was only founded in 1703 by Tsar Peter the Great
4. or considering a variety of the trip accommodation offers
5. that reveal the mysterious and tragic genius of St. Petersburg
6. of the most intriguing and historically significant cities in Europe
7. including beautiful historic gardens and extensive leisure parks

A	B	C	D	E	F

Решение:
Пропуску A соответствует часть текста под номером 5.
Пропуску B соответствует часть текста под номером 3.
Пропуску C соответствует часть текста под номером 1.
Пропуску D соответствует часть текста под номером 7.
Пропуску E соответствует часть текста под номером 6.
Пропуску F соответствует часть текста под номером 2.

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A Petersburg Story

1833

INTRODUCTION

The incident, described in this story is based on a truth.

The details of the flood are taken from the contemporary magazines.

The curious ones can consult the record, prepared by V. I. Berkh.

PROLOGUE

On a deserted, wave-swept shore,

He stood — in his mind great thoughts grow —

And gazed afar. The northern river

Sped on its wide course him before;

One humble skiff cut the waves’ silver.

On banks of mosses and wet grass

Black huts were dotted there by chance —

The miserable Finn’s abode;

The wood unknown to the rays

Of the dull sun, by clouds stowed,

Hummed all around. And he thought so:

‘The Swede from here will be frightened;

Here a great city will be wrought

To spite our neighborhood conceited.

From here by Nature we’re destined

To cut a door to Europe wide,

To step with a strong foot by waters.

Here, by the new for them sea-paths,

Ships of all flags will come to us —

And on all seas our great feast opens.’

An age passed, and the young stronghold,

The charm and sight of northern nations,

From the woods’ dark and marshes’ cold,

Rose the proud one and precious.

Where once the Finnish fisherman,

Sad stepson of the World, alone,

By low riverbanks’ a sand,

Cast into waters, never known,

His ancient net, now on the place,

Along the full of people banks,

Cluster the tall and graceful masses

Of castles and palaces; and sails

Hasten in throng to the rich quays

From all the lands our planet masters;

The Neva-river’s dressed with rocks;

Bridges hang o’er the waters proud;

Abundantly her isles are covered

With dark-green gardens’ gorgeous locks…

By the new capital, the younger,

Old Moscow’s eclipsed at once —

Such is eclipsed a queen-dowager

By a new queen when her time comes.

I love you, Peter’s great creation,

I love your view of stern and grace,

The Neva wave’s regal procession,

The grayish granite — her bank’s dress,

The airy iron-casting fences,

The gentle transparent twilight,

The moonless gleam of your nights restless,

When I so easy read and write

Without a lamp in my room lone,

And seen is each huge buildings’ stone

Of the left streets, and is so bright

The Admiralty spire’s flight,

And when, not letting the night’s darkness

To reach the golden heaven’s height,

The dawn after the sunset hastens —

And a half-hour’s for the night.

I love your so sever winter’s

Quite still and fresh air and strong frost,

The sleighs race on the shores river’s,

The girls — each brighter than a rose,

The gleam and hum of the balls’ dances,

And, on the bachelors’ free feast,

The hissing of the foaming glasses

And the punch’s bluish flaming mist.

I love the warlike animation

Of the play-fields of the god Mars,

And horse-and-footmen priests’ of wars

So homogeneous attraction,

In their ranks, in the rhythmic moves,

Those flags, victories and rended,

The glitter of those helmets, splendid,

Shot through in military strives.

I love, O capital my fairest,

Your stronghold guns’ thunder and smoke,

In moments when the northern empress

Adds brunches to the regal oak

Or Russia lauds a winning stroke

To any new and daring foe,

Or, breaking up the light-blue ice,

The Neva streams it and exults,

Scenting the end of cold and snow.

City of Peter, just you shine

And stand unshakable as Russia!

May make a peace with beauty, thine,

The conquered nature’s casual rushes;

And let the Finnish waves forget

Their ancient bondages and malice

And not disturb with their hate senseless

The endless sleep of Peter, great!

The awful period was that,

It’s fresh in our recollection…

This time about, my dear friend,

I am beginning my narration.

My story will be very sad.

PART ONE

On Petrograd, sunk into darkness,

November breathed with fall cold’s harshness.

And, splashing, with the noisy waves

Into the brims of her trim fences,

The Neva raved, like the seek raves

In a bed, that has become the restless.

Now it was very dark and late;

The rain stroke ‘gainst the window’s flat.

And the wind blew with sadly wailing.

Right at this time, from being a guest

Evgeny, for his nightly rest,

Came home. This name was most prevailing

In our young hero’s name choice.

It sounds pleasantly. Of course,

With it my pen’s had long connections

It needn’t the special commendations,

Though in the times, in Lithe gone,

It might have been the most attractive

And under Karamzin’s pen, fine,

Sung in some legends, our native;

But now it is forgotten by

The world and rumors. Our guy

Lives in Kolomna: he’s in service,

Avoids the rich ones, and ne’er sad is

For his kin which had left the world,

Or for the well-forgotten old.

So, he is home — our Evgeny,

Took off his greatcoat, undressed,

Lay in his poor bed, but oppressed

He was by his thoughts, so many.

What did he thought of? Well, of that

That he was poor and that his bread,

His honour and his independence

Just by hard work must be achieved,

That God should send to him from heavens

More mind and money. That do live

Such idle, fully happy creatures —

The lazy-bones, quite ludicrous,.

Whose life is absolutely light!

That he had served for two long years;

And that the weather, former fierce,

Hadn’t come less fierce, that the flood

In the Neva is getting higher,

The bridges might be got entire,

And that his sweet Parasha’s place

For two-free days wouldn’t be accessed.

There sighed Evgeny with his soul,

And dreamed as dreams a real bard:

«To marry then? Of course it’s hard.

But why don’t marry, in a whole?

I’m of the young and healthy sight,

Ready to work for day and night;

I’ll someway find the good repose,

The simple and shy place, at last,

Parasha will be there composed.

The year or, may be, two will pass —

I’m in position, to my dear

I’ll give all family to bear

And bring our children up, at once…

Such we’ll start life, at last repose,

With hand-in-hand, such we’ll come both,

And our grandsons will bury us…»

Thus he did dream. And a great sadness

Embraced his soul in that night,

He wished the wind’s weep to be lesser,

Rain’s siege of windows — not so tight.

At last his sleepy eyes were closed…

And now the night is getting gray —

That night, so nasty and morose,

And it is coming — the pale day

The awful day! During the night

Neva had strived for sea ‘gainst tempests

But, having lost all her great battles,

The river ceased the useless fight…

And in the morn on her shores proud,

Stood people in a pressed in lot

And saw the tall and heard the loud

Fierce waters’ mountains, it had brought.

But by the force of airy breathing

Blocked from the Gulf, the wide Neva

Came back — the wrathful one and seething —

And flooded islands, near and far;

The weather grew into the cruel,

Neva — more swelling and more brutal,

Like in a kettle boiled and steamed,

And then, as a wild creature seemed,

Jumped on the city. And before it,

All ran away from its strait path,

And all got emptied there; at once.

The waters flew into the cellars,

And raised up to the fence of canals —

And, like Triton, Petropol sails

Sunk in the water till his waist.

Siege and assault! The evil waters

Thrust into windows, like slaughters.

The mad boats row into a glass.

The stalls are under the wet mass.

The wrecks of huts, the logs, roofs’ pieces,

The stores of the tread, auspicious,

The things, carried the pale want from,

The bridges got away by storm,

The coffins from the graveyards — float,

Along the streets!

The populace

Sees God’s great wrath and waits for death.

All is destroyed: bread and abode.

And how to live?

The monarch, blessed,

Tsar Aleksandr, in a good fashion,

Still governed Russia that year, dread,

And from the balcony he, sad

And pale, said: «Ne’er the God-made nature

Can be subdued by any tsars.»

And, in a thought, looked at the evil’s

With his full of deep sadness eyes.

The streets turned into the fast rivers,

Running to made lakes, dark and grievous,

The Palace was an island, sad,

That loomed over the blackened waters.

The Tsar decreed — from end to end,

Down the shortest streets and longest,

On danger routs over the waves,

His generals set into the sailing —

To save the drawing and straining

On streets and in their homes-graves.

Then on the widest Square of Peter,

Where with his glass a new pile glittered,

Where on its porch, too highly placed,

With their paw raised, as if they’re living,

Stood two marble lions, overseeing.

On one of them, as for a race,

Without his hat, arms — tightly pressed,

Awfully pale — no stir appeared —

Evgeny sat. And there he feared

Not his own death. He did not hear

How the wrathful roller neared,

Greedily licking his shoes’ soles,

And how flagged him the rain coarse,

And how the fierce wind there wailed,

Or how it’d blown off his hat.

His looks of deepest desperation

Were all set on a single place

Without a move. The waves, impatient,

Had risen there, like tallest crags,

Lifted from waked deeps in a madness,

There wreckage swam, there wailed a tempest …

O, God! O, God! — Right on that place,

Alas! so close to the waves,

And by the shores of the Gulf Finnish,

A willow-tree, a fence unfinished

And an old hut: there they must be —

A widow and her child Parasha —

His soul’s dream … Or does he see

It in a dream? … And, like the usher

Of dreams — a sleep, is our life none —

Just Heavens make of Earth a fun?

And he, like under conjuration,

Like in jail irons’ limitation,

Cannot come down. Him around

Only black waters could be found!

And turned to him with his back, proudest,

On height that never might be tossed,

Over Neva’s unending wildness,

Stands, with his arm, stretched to skies, lightless,

The idol on his brazen horse.

PART TWO

But now, sated with distraction

And tired of its rude attack,

Neva, at last, was coming back,

Looking at ruins with satisfaction

And leaving with a little attention

Its prey behind. A reprobate,

With his sever and low set,

Thus, thrusting in a village, helpless,

Breaks, slaughters, robs all and oppresses:

The roar, rape, swore, alert and wails!…

And, under their large booty posted,

Afraid of chases and exhausted,

The robbers speed to their old place,

Losing their loot along the road.

The waves were gone, the pavement, broad,

Was opened, and Evgeny, stressed,

With heart half-dead and stifled throat,

In a hope, fear and awful pains,

Runs to the stream, just now restrained.

But, in the winning celebration,

Waves still were boiling with a passion,

As if to flames, under them fanned;

They still were with white foam covered,

And Neva’s breast was heavily moved,

Like the steed’s one after a race.

Evgeny sees a boat here;

He runs to it — a find, revered, —

He calls a boatman at once —

The boatman, a guy quite careless,

Just for ten kopeks, with great gladness,

Takes him into the waves’ wild dance.

And for a long with these waves, close,

The much trained rower was in fight,

And to sink deeply mid their rows,

The scuff, with its brave sailors both,

Was apt all time… The other side

Is reached, at last. And the frustrated

Runs through the so well-known street

To his old places. He doesn’t meet

A thing, he’d known. The view’s rated

As the worst one! All’s in a mess —

All is failed down or swept or stressed:

The little houses are bent down,

Some — shifted, some — razed to their ground

By awful forces of the waves;

The bodies, waiting for their graves,

Are lying round, like aft fight, merciless.

Our poor Evgeny — his mind’s flamed —

Half-dead under the tortures, endless,

Runs there where the inhumane fate

Would give him the unknown message,

As if a letter, sealed to bear;

He’s now in the suburbs’ wreckage,

There is the Gulf, the house is near…

But what is this? He stopped, frustrated,

Went back, returned a little later…

He looks… he walks … he looks once more.

There is the place their house for

And willow-tree. The gates were here —

They’re swept… But where’s the house, o grace?

And full of troubles, hard to wear,

He walked and walked around the place.

Told to himself in voices loud —

And suddenly, as if all’s found,

Struck his forehead and fell in laugh.

The night embraced the city, stuffed

With all its woe. And still for hours

A sleep was running from each house —

The folk recalling the past day.

Now, through the clouds, weak and pale,

The morn ray flashed o’er the mute city

And did not found e’en a trace

Of the past woe. The dawn, witty,

Had safely screened the doing, base.

The former life had got its place.

Along the streets now free of flooding,

With cold indifference, folks are moving.

Just having left his lodge of night,

The clerk is going at his site.

The petty tradesman, very dauntless,

Is opening his cellar — wet,

Robbed by the waves’ impudent set —

Intending to revenge his losses

On brothers-humans. From the yard

Is pulled the boat, full of mud.

Count Khvostov, a pet of Zeus,

Now is singing his songs, deathless,

To the Neva shores’ former plight.

What’s of Evgeny, our poor hero? …

Alas! His agitated mind,

Against the immense woe’s billow

Didn’t stand untouchable. The wind’s

And Neva’s noise was always growing

In his poor ears. Mute and half-blind,

With awful thoughts, he was a-roaming,

Being quite tortured by some dream.

A week, month passed by as a stream,

At his past home he wasn’t returning

And his landlord, when the rent’s time

Had gone, gave his corner to some

Bard, sunk in a poverty unduly.

Evgeny didn’t come for his stuff

And soon became a stranger, fully,

To world: his day wasn’t long enough

For walk; he slept on wharfs till morning

His bread was one a beggar has,

He wore the dirt and rotten dress.

The evil children, with cries joyful,

Sometimes threw stones to his back,

Often the coachmen’ whips, wrathful,

Stung his thin body — for his track

Was cast without choosing direction —

He seemed to notice nothing else —

He was quiet deafened and oppressed

By noise of inner agitation.

And thus he strayed in his life’s mist —

Not humane being, nor some beast —

Not fish, nor flesh — not living creature,

Nor ghost of dead … But once he slept

By Neva’s wharf — the summer’s features

Were now like autumn’s. The wind, bad,

Was breathing there. The roller, sad,

Was splashing its complain and groan

And striking ‘gainst the steps of stone,

Like the offended at the door

Of justice that doesn’t hear him more.

The poor waked up. All was gloom round:

Falling the rain, wind wailing loud,

And it was answered through the night

By some alone distant guard…

Evgeny got up in a hurry,

He recollected his all flurry,

Stood on a spot, began to walk

And stopped again, almost choked,

Intently gazing him around

With a wild terror on his face…

It seemed that he himself had found

By a big house where were placed,

With their paw up, as if quite living,

Two marble lions, overseeing,

And in the height, strait o’er him posed,

Over the rock, fenced with cast iron,

With arm stretched into the skies, sullen,

The idol sat on his bronze horse.

Evgeny startled. Became clear

The strange thoughts, torturing his mind —

He named the place where played the flood,

Where ran the waters-spoilers, fierce, —

Merging in one rebellious stream, —

The lions, square and, at last, him,

Who stood without a move and sound —

The cooper head piercing black skies —

Him, by whose fatal enterprise

This city under sea took ground…

He’s awful in the nightly dark!

In what a thought his brow’s sunk!

What a great might in it lies, hidden!

And what a fire’s in this steed!

O, proud horse, where do you speed!

Where will you down your bronze hoofs, flittin’?

O, karma’s mighty sovereign!

Not thus you’d reared Russia, sullen,

Into the height, with a curb, iron,

Before an abyss in your reign?

The poor madman circled around

The foot of the black idol’s mass,

He gazed into the brazen face

Of the half-planet’s ruler, proud.

And was his breast oppressed. He laid

On the cold barrier his forehead.

His eyes were veiled with a mist-cover,

His heart was all caught with a flame,

His blood seethed. Gloomy he became

Before the idol, looming over,

And, having clenched his teeth and fist,

As if possessed by evil powers,

«Well, builder-maker of the marvels,»

He whispered, trembling in a fit,

«You only wait!…»- And to a street,

At once he started to run out —

He fancied: that the great tsar’s face,

With a wrath suddenly embraced,

Was turning slowly around…

And strait along the empty square

He runs and hears as if there were,

Just behind him, the peals of thunder,

Of the hard-ringing hoofs’ reminders, —

A race the empty square across,

Upon the pavement, fiercely tossed;

And by the moon, that palled lighter,

Having stretched his hand over roofs,

The Brazen Horseman rides him after —

On his steed of the ringing hoofs.

And all the night the madman, poor,

Where’er he might direct his steps,

Aft him the Bronze Horseman, for sure,

Keeps on the heavy-treading race.

And from this time, when he was going,

Along this square, only by chance,

A sense of terror was deforming

His features. And he would then press

His hand to heart in a great fastness,

As if to make its tortures painless,

Take off the worn peaked cap at once,

Didn’t turn from earth his fearful eyes

And try to pass by.

A small island’s

Seen in the sea quite near a shore.

A fisherman, the late catch for,

Would sail to it with his net, silent,

Sometimes — and boil there his soup, poor;

Or an official clerk would moor

To it in a boat-walking Sunday’s.

The empty isle. Seeds don’t beget

There any plant. A player, sightless,

The flood, had pulled there a ghost, sad,

Of an old hut. The water over,

It had been left like a bush, black.

Last spring, by a small barging rover,

It was conveyed to the shore, back —

Destroyed and empty. By its entry,

They’d found the poor madman of mine

And, for a sake of the Divine,

Buried his corpse in that soil, scanty.

Представлено сочинение на английском языке Медный всадник (памятник)/ The Bronze Horseman (the statue) с переводом на русский язык.

The Bronze Horseman (the statue)	Медный всадник (памятник)
There are a lot of monuments in Saint Petersburg but the most famous one is probably the Bronze Horseman, an equestrian statue of Peter the Great by a sculptor Etienne Falconet.	В Санкт-Петербурге огромное количество памятников, но, вероятно, самый известный, это памятник Петру I или Медный всадник. Его автор — скульптор Этьен Фальконе.
It’s located in the Senate Square near Saint Isaac’s Cathedral and the State Hermitage Museum by the Neva riverbank. There is an interesting mistake in the name of the statue, it’s made of bronze. The point is back in the days when it was made, copper was also called bronze. The name the Bronze Horseman was depicted by Pushkin in his poem of the same name.	Установлен он на Сенатской площади, рядом с Исаакиевским собором и музеем Эрмитаж, на набережной реки Невы. В название памятника закралось забавное недоразумение – он изготовлен из бронзы. Всё дело в том, что в те времена, когда он был изготовлен, медью могли называть и бронзу. Само название «Медный всадник» закрепилось за ним после написания Пушкиным одноимённого произведения.
The statue depicted Peter the Great riding a horse who is standing up and under it you can see a sneak that symbolizes dark force. The statue of the horse and Peter the Great is located on top of the big stone. This stone has a name too — Thunder stone. It was found in the suburbs of the city and it took several months to bring it to the place where it is right now. It was cleaned up and now we can see it the way it is.	Памятник представляет собой скульптуру российского царя Пётра I, сидящего на вздыбленном коне, у которого в ногах ползает змея, олицетворяющая тёмные силы. Статуя коня с Петром установлена на огромный камень. Этот камень даже имеет название – Гром-камень. Он был найден в окрестностях города и его несколько месяцев доставляли до места установки памятника. Затем его обработали, и он предстал перед нами в своём нынешнем виде.
The Grand Opening took place on August 7, 1782. The sculptor Falconet wasn’t able to be participate in this event.	Торжественное открытие памятника было 7 августа 1782 года. Скульптор Фальконе не смог участвовать в этом мероприятии.
After the opening of the monument a lot of stories and jokes were made about it and it was mentioned in different books. Nowadays it’s a symbol of the city and one of its main sights. There were also several coins issued with the picture of the monuments. Newlyweds love taking photos with it.	После открытия памятника появилось много легенд и шуток о нём, он упоминался в литературных произведениях. В наши дни он стал одним из символов города и его известной достопримечательностью. Было выпущено несколько монет с его изображением. На его фоне любят фотографироваться молодожёны.

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