Lyrics of the song Nekrasov N.A. Poem of reflection at the front entrance of Nekrasov, go out onto the Volga
A large number of poems came out of the hand of the classic, written under a strong impression. This is how the work “Reflections at the Front Entrance” became, which was born within a few hours.
Reflections at the front door
Here is the front entrance. On special days,
Possessed by a servile illness,
The whole city is in some kind of fright
Drives up to the treasured doors;
Having written down your name and rank,
The guests are leaving for home,
So deeply pleased with ourselves
What do you think - that’s their calling!
And on ordinary days this magnificent entrance
Poor faces besiege:
Projectors, place-seekers,
And an elderly man and a widow.
From him and to him you know in the morning
All the couriers are jumping around with papers.
Returning, another hums “tram-tram”,
And other petitioners cry.
Once I saw the men come here,
Village Russian people,
They prayed at the church and stood away,
Hanging their brown heads to their chests;
The doorman appeared. “Let it go,” they say
With an expression of hope and anguish.
He looked at the guests: they were ugly to look at!
Tanned faces and hands,
The Armenian boy is thin on his shoulders,
On a knapsack on their bent backs,
Cross on my neck and blood on my feet,
Shod in homemade bast shoes
(You know, they wandered for a long time
From some distant provinces).
Someone shouted to the doorman: “Drive!
Ours doesn’t like ragged rabble!”
And the door slammed. After standing,
The pilgrims untied their wallets,
But the doorman did not let me in, without taking a meager contribution,
And they went, scorched by the sun,
Repeating: “God judge him!”
Throwing up hopeless hands,
And while I could see them,
They walked with their heads uncovered...
And the owner of luxurious chambers
I was still in deep sleep...
You, who consider life enviable
The intoxication of shameless flattery,
Red tape, gluttony, gaming,
Wake up! There is also pleasure:
Turn them back! their salvation lies in you!
But the happy are deaf to goodness...
The thunder of heaven does not frighten you,
And you hold earthly ones in your hands,
And these unknown people carry
Inexorable grief in the hearts.
Why do you need this crying sorrow?
What do you need these poor people?
Eternal holiday quickly running
Life doesn't let you wake up.
And why? Clickers' fun
You are calling for the people's good;
Without him you will live with glory
And you will die with glory!
More serene than an Arcadian idyll
The old days will set:
Under the captivating sky of Sicily,
In the fragrant tree shade,
Contemplating how the sun is purple
Plunges into the azure sea,
Stripes of his gold, -
Lulled by gentle singing
Mediterranean wave - like a child
You will fall asleep, surrounded by care
Dear and beloved family
(Waiting impatiently for your death);
They will bring your remains to us,
To honor with a funeral feast,
And you will go to your grave... hero,
Silently cursed by the fatherland,
Exalted by loud praise!..
However, why are we such a person?
Worrying for small people?
Shouldn't we take our anger out on them? -
Safer... More fun
Find some consolation in something...
It doesn’t matter what the man endures;
This is how providence guides us
Pointed... but he's used to it!
Behind the outpost, in a wretched tavern
The poor will drink everything down to the ruble
And they will go, begging along the road,
And they will groan... Native land!
Name me such an abode,
I've never seen such an angle
Where would your sower and guardian be?
Where would a Russian man not moan?
He moans across the fields, along the roads,
He groans in prisons, in prisons,
In the mines, on an iron chain;
He groans under the barn, under the haystack,
Under a cart, spending the night in the steppe;
Moaning in his own poor house,
I am not happy with the light of God's sun;
Moans in every remote town,
At the entrance of courts and chambers.
Go out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
We call this groan a song -
The barge haulers are walking with a towline!..
Volga! Volga!.. In spring, full of water
You're not flooding the fields like that,
Like the great sorrow of the people
Our land is overflowing, -
Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart!
What does your endless groan mean?
Will you wake up full of strength,
Or, fate obeying the law,
You have already done everything you could, -
Created a song like a groan
And spiritually rested forever?..
The history of the creation of the poem
According to the recollections of contemporaries, the poem “Reflection at the Main Entrance” was written at a time when Nikolai Alekseevich was in the blues. This is how Panaeva, with whom he lived for more than ten years, saw him. She described this day in her memoirs, saying that the poet spent the whole day on the couch without even getting up. He refused to eat and did not want to see anyone, so there was no reception that day.
Avdotya Panaeva recalled that, worried about the poet’s behavior, the next day she woke up earlier than usual and decided to look out the window to see what the weather was like outside. The young woman saw peasants on the porch waiting for the front entrance opposite the poet’s house to open. Prince N. Muravyov, who at that time served as the Minister of State Property, lived in this house. Even though the weather was rainy, damp and cloudy, the peasants sat on the steps of the front porch and waited patiently.
Most likely, they came here early in the morning, when dawn was just beginning to rise. From their dirty clothes one could easily understand that they had come from afar. And they probably had only one goal - to submit a petition to the prince. The woman also saw how a doorman suddenly appeared on the steps, began sweeping and drove them out into the street. But the peasants still didn’t leave: they hid behind the ledge of this entrance and, freezing, moving from foot to foot, getting wet to the thread, pressed against the wall, trying to hide from the rain, expecting that maybe they would still be accepted, listened to , or at least they will accept a petition.
Panaeva could not stand it and went to the poet to tell him the whole situation. When Nikolai Nekrasov approached the window, he saw how the peasants were driven away. The janitor and the policeman who had been called pushed them in the back, trying to clear them from the entrance and the yard in general as quickly as possible. This greatly angered the poet, he began to pluck his mustache, which is what he did when he was very nervous, and pressed his lips tightly together.
But he couldn’t watch for a long time, so he very soon moved away from the window, and, lost in thought, lay down on the sofa again. And exactly two hours later he read his new poem to Avdotya, which was originally called “At the Front Entrance.” Of course, the poet changed a lot in the picture that he saw in reality, and added fiction to raise the themes of retribution and biblical and righteous judgment. Therefore, this poetic plot has a symbolic meaning for the author.
But the censorship could not miss such a poetic creation by Nekrasov, so it was simply rewritten for five years and passed from hand to hand, rewritten by hand. In 1860 it was published in one of the literary magazines, but without indicating the author. Herzen, who contributed to the publication of this Nekrasov poem, in his magazine "Bell", below the text of the poem, also wrote a note in which he said that poems are rarely included in their magazines, but
“There is no way not to place the poem.”
The author's attitude towards his work
In his story, the poet shows a simple and common situation for that time, when peasants become humiliated and insulted. The situation depicted by the author, for the morals and practices of that time, was commonplace and familiar to many contemporaries. But Nikolai Alekseevich turns it into a whole story, which is based on real and truthful facts.
The poet shows his attitude to the fact that the peasants, accustomed to humiliation, do not even try to protest. They, like silent slaves, quietly allow themselves to be bullied. And this habit of theirs also horrifies the poet.
Some readers may also consider in its plot a call for rebellion, which the poet, as a patriot of his beloved country and suffering people, created in such an interesting poetic form. And now, when his patience has already reached a certain peak, he calls on his people to rise up against slavery and injustice.
The main idea that Nekrasov is trying to convey is that the people will not be able to get through or even stand at the front entrance.
We need to act differently.
Basic images and means of expression
The main image of the entire Nekrasov poem is, first of all, the author himself, whose voice sounds constantly, and the reader feels his attitude to everything that is happening and to the problem that he raises. But nevertheless, he does not name himself, and creates his image as if he is not speaking from himself, but as if hidden behind reality, behind those pictures of the world that he draws with the help of expressive means. In every detail you can see the author who is trying to emphasize his attitude to reality.
The characters in Nekrasov's plot are different. Most of them are united by one thing - suffering and hero. The author divides all the petitioners who visit this front entrance into two groups: someone comes out humming something pleasant to themselves, and the second group of people usually comes out crying.
And after such a division, the second part of his story begins, where he immediately speaks directly about what once he, the poet Nikolai Nekrasov, happened to see. With each new line in the plot, the voice of the author grows, who became an involuntary witness of human grief and servility. And the poet’s voice sounds strong and angry, since he feels not at all like a witness, but like a participant in all this.
It is enough to read carefully the characteristics that the author gives to the peasants who came with a petition. They wait, do not ask, and when they are not accepted, then, having come to terms with this, they obediently wander on. And soon the author takes the reader to those rooms where the peasants were never able to get into. The writer shows the life of such an official who continues to humiliate the peasants, considering himself superior to them.
In the third part of Nekrasov’s plot, you can hear the grief of the poet himself, who is indignant and protests against such an attitude towards the peasants. But how does an official feel who so easily drives the peasants away? And here the author uses expressive means to make his monologue more lively and visual:
⇒Expression.
⇒Complex sentences.
⇒Rhetorical exclamations and questions.
⇒Dactylic rhyme.
⇒Alternation of anapests: trimeter and tetrameter.
⇒Conversational style.
⇒Antithesis.
Analysis of the poem
The author tries to show the contrast between the life of a well-fed official, who is passionate about gambling, gluttony, constant lies and falsehood in everything, and the completely different opposite life of the peasants, who see nothing good.
The life of a peasant is tragic, and prisons and jails are always ready for the peasant. The people are constantly oppressed, which is why they suffer so much. Such a strong people perish at the will of officials, whose generalized portrait is shown in the poem.
Nikolai Nekrasov is outraged by such a long patience of the common people. He tries to become their protector, because they themselves are not indignant or complain. The poet and the official calls on him to come to his senses, to finally remember his duties, because his task is to serve for the benefit of his homeland and the people who live here. The author is indignant at the fact that such order and lawlessness reign in his beloved country, and hopes that this will all stop soon.
But the author addresses not only the official, but also the people themselves, who are silent. He asks him how much longer he can endure and when, finally, he will wake up and stop being filled with grief and suffering. After all, their terrible groan is heard throughout the country, and it is terrible and tragic.
The poet's indignation is so great, and his faith is so strong that the reader has no doubt that justice will prevail.
Reads in 3 minutes
The poet describes the front entrance of a house belonging to an influential and wealthy nobleman. “On special days” many people come to see him.
Having written down your name and rank,
The guests are leaving for home,
So deeply pleased with ourselves
What do you think - that’s their calling!
They come to remind the powerful owner of the house about themselves.
On ordinary weekdays, the entrance is also in full swing with life: a crowd of ordinary people - “searchlighters, place-seekers, and an elderly man, and a widow,” couriers scurrying around with papers. Some petitioners leave there satisfied, while others leave with tears in their eyes.
One day the poet saw men, “village Russian people,” approach the entrance and ask the doorman to let them in. Looking around the guests, the doorman found them unsightly.
Tanned faces and hands,
The Armenian boy is thin on his shoulders,
On a knapsack on their bent backs,
Cross on my neck and blood on my feet,
Shod in homemade bast shoes
(You know, they wandered for a long time
From some distant provinces).
The doorman was ordered to drive the men away from the depths of the house - the owner “does not like ragged rabble.” The wanderers untied their wallets, but the doorman did not take the “meager contribution” and did not let them into the house. The men left, scorched by the sun, “throwing up their hands hopelessly,” and walked for a long time with their heads uncovered. “And the owner of the luxurious chambers” was sleeping soundly at that time.
The poet calls on the nobleman to wake up, leave “red tape, gluttony, gambling” and shameless flattery, which he considers his life, and accept the poor petitioners, because only in them is his salvation. “But the happy are deaf to good” - heavenly thunders do not frighten the rich man, and earthly power is in his hands.
The rich man doesn't care about the common people. His life is an eternal holiday that does not allow him to wake up and see the people's poverty and sorrow. And the nobleman doesn’t need this. And without worrying about the people's welfare, he will live and die “with glory.”
The poet ironically describes how the nobleman lives out his days “under the captivating sky of Sicily,” contemplating the magnificent sunsets over the Mediterranean Sea, and then dies, surrounded by his family, impatiently awaiting his death.
They will bring your remains to us,
To honor with a funeral feast,
And you will go to your grave... hero,
Silently cursed by the fatherland,
Exalted by loud praise!...
However, such a significant person should not be disturbed “for small people.” On the contrary, it is better to “take your anger out” on them - it is both safe and fun. But the man will endure as usual, as “the providence guiding us” indicated to him. Having drunk their last kopecks “in a wretched tavern,” the men groan and return home, “begging along the way.”
The poet does not know a place where the Russian peasant, “the sower and the preserver,” does not moan. His groan is heard from everywhere - from fields and roads; from prisons, prisons and mines; from barns and poor houses; from the “entrance of courts and chambers”.
Go out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
We call this groan a song -
The barge haulers are walking with a towline!...
The poet compares the people's grief, with which “our land is overflowing,” with the spring flood of the mighty Volga. He asks: what does this endless groan mean? Will the people wake up “full of strength”? Or he has already done everything he could - “created a song like a groan.”
Here is the front entrance. On special days,
Possessed by a servile illness,
The whole city is in some kind of fright
Drives up to the treasured doors;
Having written down your name and rank,
The guests are leaving for home,
So deeply pleased with ourselves
What do you think - that’s their calling!
And on ordinary days this magnificent entrance
Poor faces besiege:
Projectors, place-seekers,
And an elderly man and a widow.
From him and to him you know in the morning
All the couriers are jumping around with papers.
Returning, another hums “tram-tram”,
And other petitioners cry.
Once I saw the men come here,
Village Russian people,
They prayed at the church and stood away,
Hanging their brown heads to their chests;
The doorman appeared. “Let it go,” they say
With an expression of hope and anguish.
He looked at the guests: they were ugly to look at!
Tanned faces and hands,
The Armenian boy is thin on his shoulders,
On a knapsack on their bent backs,
Cross on my neck and blood on my feet,
Shod in homemade bast shoes
(You know, they wandered for a long time
From some distant provinces).
Someone shouted to the doorman: “Drive!
Ours doesn’t like ragged rabble!”
And the door slammed. After standing,
The pilgrims untied their wallets,
But the doorman did not let me in, without taking a meager contribution,
And they went, scorched by the sun,
Repeating: “God judge him!”
Throwing up hopeless hands,
And while I could see them,
They walked with their heads uncovered...
And the owner of luxurious chambers
I was still in deep sleep...
You, who consider life enviable
The intoxication of shameless flattery,
Red tape, gluttony, gaming,
Wake up! There is also pleasure:
Turn them back! their salvation lies in you!
But the happy are deaf to goodness...
The thunder of heaven does not frighten you,
And you hold earthly ones in your hands,
And these unknown people carry
Inexorable grief in the hearts.
Why do you need this crying sorrow?
What do you need these poor people?
Eternal holiday quickly running
Life doesn't let you wake up.
And why? Clickers3 fun
You are calling for the people's good;
Without him you will live with glory
And you will die with glory!
More serene than an Arcadian idyll4
The old days will set.
Under the captivating sky of Sicily,
In the fragrant tree shade,
Contemplating how the sun is purple
Plunges into the azure sea,
Stripes of his gold, -
Lulled by gentle singing
Mediterranean wave - like a child
You will fall asleep, surrounded by care
Dear and beloved family
(Waiting impatiently for your death);
They will bring your remains to us,
To honor with a funeral feast,
And you will go to your grave... hero,
Silently cursed by the fatherland,
Exalted by loud praise!..
However, why are we such a person?
Worrying for small people?
Shouldn't we take our anger out on them?
Safer... More fun
Find some consolation in something...
It doesn’t matter what the man will endure:
This is how providence guides us
Pointed... but he's used to it!
Behind the outpost, in a wretched tavern
The poor will drink everything down to the ruble
And they will go, begging along the road,
And they will groan... Native land!
Name me such an abode,
I've never seen such an angle
Where would your sower and guardian be?
Where would a Russian man not moan?
He moans across the fields, along the roads,
He groans in prisons, in prisons,
In the mines, on an iron chain;
He groans under the barn, under the haystack,
Under a cart, spending the night in the steppe;
Moaning in his own poor house,
I am not happy with the light of God's sun;
Moans in every remote town,
At the entrance of courts and chambers.
Go out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
We call this groan a song -
The barge haulers are walking with a towline!..
Volga! Volga!.. In spring, full of water
You're not flooding the fields like that,
Like the great sorrow of the people
Our land is overflowing, -
Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart!
What does your endless groan mean?
Will you wake up full of strength,
Or, fate obeying the law,
You have already done everything you could, -
Created a song like a groan
And spiritually rested forever?..Nikolai Nekrasov
Here is the front entrance. On special days, Possessed by a servile illness, The whole city with some kind of fear Drives up to the cherished doors; Having written down their name and title, the guests leave for home, So deeply satisfied with themselves, What do you think - that is their calling! And on ordinary days, this magnificent entrance is besieged by wretched faces: Projectors, place-seekers, And an elderly man, and a widow. From him and to him you know in the morning All the couriers are jumping with papers. Returning, some sing “tram-tram,” And other petitioners cry. Once I saw, the men came here, Russian village people, prayed at the church and stood in the distance, hanging their brown heads to their chests; The doorman appeared. “Let me in,” they said with an expression of hope and torment. He looked at the guests: they were ugly to look at! Tanned faces and arms, a thin Armenian boy on his shoulders. A knapsack on their bent backs, a cross on their necks and blood on their feet, shod in homemade bast shoes (You know, they wandered for a long time from some distant provinces). Someone shouted to the doorman: “Drive away! Ours doesn’t like ragged rabble!” And the door slammed. After standing, the pilgrims untied their purses, but the porter did not let him in, not taking a meager contribution, and they went, scorched by the sun, repeating: “God judge him!”, spreading their arms hopelessly, and, as long as I could see them, they walked with their heads uncovered... And the owner of the luxurious chambers was still in a deep sleep... You, who consider life to be enviable, the intoxication of shameless flattery, red tape, gluttony, gambling, Wake up! There is still pleasure: Turn them back! their salvation lies in you! But the happy are deaf to good... Heavenly thunders do not frighten you, But you hold earthly ones in your hands, And these unknown people carry inexorable grief in their hearts. What is this crying sorrow to you, what is this poor people to you? An eternal holiday, quickly running Life does not allow you to wake up. And why? You call the clickers amusement for the people's good; Without it you will live with glory and you will die with glory! More serene than the Arcadian idyll, the old days will set. Under the captivating sky of Sicily, In the fragrant shade of trees, Contemplating how the purple sun plunges into the azure sea, Its stripes of gold, - Lulled by the gentle singing of the Mediterranean wave, - like a child You will fall asleep, surrounded by the care of your dear and beloved family (Waiting impatiently for your death) ; They will bring your remains to us, To honor you with a funeral funeral feast, And you will go to your grave... a hero, Silently cursed by your fatherland, Exalted by loud praise!.. However, why are we bothering such a person for small people? Shouldn't we take our anger out on them? - Safer... Even more fun to find solace in something. .. It doesn’t matter what the man endures: So the providence guiding us Indicated... but he’s used to it! Behind the outpost, in a wretched tavern, the poor people will drink up to the ruble, And they will go, begging along the road, And they will groan... Native land! Name me such a monastery, I have never seen such a corner, Where would your sower and guardian be, Where would the Russian peasant not groan? He groans through the fields, along the roads, He groans through prisons, through prisons, In mines, on an iron chain; He groans under a barn, under a haystack, Under a cart, spending the night in the steppe; Moans in his own poor house, The light of God's sun is not happy; Moans in every remote town, At the entrance of courts and chambers. Go out to the Volga: whose groan is heard Over the great Russian river? We call this groan a song - The barge haulers are walking along the towline!.. Volga! Volga!.. In the spring of abundant water You do not flood the fields like our land is overflowing with the great sorrow of the people, - Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart! What does your endless groan mean? Will you wake up, full of strength, Or, obeying the law of fate, You have already accomplished everything that you could, - Created a song like a groan, And rested spiritually forever?.. 1858
Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov
Here is the front entrance. On special days,
Possessed by a servile illness,
The whole city is in some kind of fright
Drives up to the treasured doors;
Having written down your name and rank,
The guests are leaving for home,
So deeply pleased with ourselves
What do you think - that’s their calling!
And on ordinary days this magnificent entrance
Poor faces besiege:
Projectors, place-seekers,
And an elderly man and a widow.
From him and to him you know in the morning
All the couriers are jumping around with papers.
Returning, another hums “tram-tram”,
And other petitioners cry.
Once I saw the men come here,
Village Russian people,
They prayed at the church and stood away,
Hanging their brown heads to their chests;
The doorman appeared. “Allow me,” they say
With an expression of hope and anguish.
He looked at the guests: they were ugly to look at!
Tanned faces and hands,
The Armenian boy is thin on his shoulders,
On a knapsack on their bent backs,
Cross on my neck and blood on my feet,
Shod in homemade bast shoes
(You know, they wandered for a long time
From some distant provinces).
Someone shouted to the doorman: “Drive!
Ours doesn’t like ragged rabble!”
And the door slammed. After standing,
The pilgrims untied their wallets,
But the doorman did not let me in, without taking a meager contribution,
And they went, scorched by the sun,
Repeating: “God judge him!”
Throwing up hopeless hands,
And while I could see them,
They walked with their heads uncovered...
And the owner of luxurious chambers
I was still in deep sleep...
You, who consider life enviable
The intoxication of shameless flattery,
Red tape, gluttony, gaming,
Wake up! There is also pleasure:
Turn them back! their salvation lies in you!
But the happy are deaf to goodness...
The thunder of heaven does not frighten you,
And you hold earthly ones in your hands,
And these unknown people carry
Inexorable grief in the hearts.
Why do you need this crying sorrow?
What do you need these poor people?
Eternal holiday quickly running
Life doesn't let you wake up.
And why? Clickers3 fun
You are calling for the people's good;
Without him you will live with glory
And you will die with glory!
More serene than an Arcadian idyll4
The old days will set.
Under the captivating sky of Sicily,
In the fragrant tree shade,
Contemplating how the sun is purple
Plunges into the azure sea,
Stripes of his gold, -
Lulled by gentle singing
Mediterranean wave - like a child
You will fall asleep, surrounded by care
Dear and beloved family
(Waiting impatiently for your death);
They will bring your remains to us,
To honor with a funeral feast,
And you will go to your grave... hero,
Silently cursed by the fatherland,
Exalted by loud praise!..
However, why are we such a person?
Worrying for small people?
Shouldn't we take our anger out on them?
Safer... Even more fun
Find some consolation in something...
It doesn’t matter what the man will endure:
This is how providence guides us
Pointed out... but he’s used to it!
Behind the outpost, in a wretched tavern
The poor will drink everything down to the ruble
And they will go, begging along the road,
And they will groan... Native land!
Name me such an abode,
I've never seen such an angle
Where would your sower and guardian be?
Where would a Russian man not moan?
He moans across the fields, along the roads,
He groans in prisons, in prisons,
In the mines, on an iron chain;
He groans under the barn, under the haystack,
Under a cart, spending the night in the steppe;
Moaning in his own poor house,
I am not happy with the light of God's sun;
Moans in every remote town,
At the entrance of courts and chambers.
Go out to the Volga: whose groan is heard
Over the great Russian river?
We call this groan a song -
The barge haulers are walking with a towline!..
Volga! Volga!.. In spring, full of water
You're not flooding the fields like that,
Like the great sorrow of the people
Our land is overflowing, -
Where there are people, there is a groan... Oh, my heart!
What does your endless groan mean?
Will you wake up full of strength,
Or, fate obeying the law,
You have already done everything you could, -
Created a song like a groan
And spiritually rested forever?..
The textbook poem “Reflections at the Front Entrance” was written by Nikolai Nekrasov in 1858, becoming one of the many works that the author dedicated to the common people. The poet grew up on a family estate, but due to the cruelty of his own father, he realized very early that the world was divided into rich and poor. Nekrasov himself was among those who were forced to eke out a semi-beggarly existence, since he was deprived of an inheritance and earned his living independently from the age of 16. Understanding what it was like for ordinary peasants in this soulless and unjust world, the poet regularly addressed social issues in his works. What depressed him most was the fact that the peasants did not know how to defend their rights and did not even know what exactly they could count on under the law. As a result, they are forced to turn into petitioners, whose fate directly depends not so much on the whim of a high-ranking person, but on the mood of an ordinary doorman.
Petitioners visit one of the houses in St. Petersburg especially often, because the governor lives here. But getting to him is not an easy task, since a formidable doorman stands in the way of the applicants, shod in “homemade bast shoes.” It is he who decides who is worthy of meeting with an official and who should be driven away, even despite a meager offering. Such an attitude towards petitioners is the norm, although the peasants, naively believing in the myth of the good master, blame his servants for everything and leave without achieving justice. However, Nekrasov understands that the problem lies not in the doormen, but in the representatives of power themselves, for whom there is nothing sweeter than “the intoxication of shameless power.” Such people are not afraid of “heavenly thunder,” and they easily solve all earthly problems with the power of their own power and money. Such officials are not at all interested in the needs of ordinary people, and the poet focuses on this in his poem. The author is outraged that there is such a gradation in society, due to which it is impossible to achieve justice without money and high social status. Moreover, the Russian peasant is a constant source of irritation and a reason for anger for such a bureaucrat. No one thinks about the fact that it is the peasants who support the entire modern society, which is unable to do without free labor. The fact that all people, by definition, are born free is deliberately hidden, and Nekrasov dreams that someday justice will triumph.
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