"Platoon. Officers and Militias of Russian Literature ”is one of those books that attracts attention rather not by the title, but by the name of the author who wrote it. Zakhar Prilepin is an ambiguous personality, but undoubtedly popular. Even if you haven't followed the book's latest releases recent years most likely you know him. He is a part-time politician and actor, a musician who starred in Kittens and a participant in the battles in Donbass. Writer, poet, journalist ... the list is endless. At the same time, by his presence anywhere or participation in something, Zakhar will certainly ensure high ratings. I mean, he knows how to PR beautifully. Fortunately, he can write just as well.

While Akunin and Grishkovets calmly print their blogs, Prilepin goes the other way.
Photo: Vladimir Andreev

While Akunin, and after him and Grishkovets, print their blogs with an imperturbable air, Prilepin goes the other way. Many different, absolutely original works come out from under his pen. Sometimes successful, sometimes not quite. But nevertheless, they clearly show that Zakhar not only knows how to captivate the reader, but also does not hesitate to play with genres and form, each time giving out something new and original. But the topic is almost always military. And “Platoon. Officers and militias of Russian literature ”are no exception.

Prilepin discovered the military side of Pushkin, Chaadaev, Batyushkov and Derzhavin. Photo: Vadim Akhmetov

Opening a well-printed hardcover book reveals eleven biographies of poets and writers from the Golden Age. But, biographies are not quite ordinary. The creative path is not given special attention here. The personal life of the characters also remains behind the scenes. And all because Prilepin is interested in his heroes primarily as a military man. That is, their actions on the battlefields, behavior in difficult situations and relations with comrades in arms (among whom there are also many well-known names) Zakhar devotes all more than 700 pages of his new book.

Starting with an extremely emotional introduction in which there is a place for both a dark bottle of imported beer and Batyushkov filled up with corpses, Prilepin goes on to the biography of Derzhavin, and then to Shishkov and Davydov. And if in “Distinguishable Silhouettes” he mixes everyone into one cauldron, which successfully creates the effect of a quick change of frames, then further attention is concentrated on one person. And so on up to Pushkin. Zakhar does not succeed in completely getting away from the notorious "textbook" nature, which often darkens the impression of historical books. However, dissolving boring, but necessary moments in quoting poems and interesting scenes, he achieves the maximum possible immersion of the reader in the atmosphere of the events taking place.

Prilepin moved away from the "textbook" dissolving boring but necessary moments in poetry quotes and interesting scenes. Photo: pixabay.com

Zakhar's style is extremely unusual. This will be felt especially acutely by those for whom Platoon will become his first book. First, you have to get used to the special dynamics of what is happening and the author's tendency to "jump" from one to another. Namely - to create an overall picture, collecting it from a mosaic of facts and details, but at the same time, invariably delighting with the lightness of the syllable.“Glinka is disingenuous here! And what the hell was he doing on “the day of the incident” with the whole governor-general? Did you drink coffee? Have you discussed the secular news? "albeit just asking rhetorical questions, Zakhar conducts a dialogue with the reader. Infects with impressions and emotions. And then he arranges a real feast for his inner militarist, thanks to the juicy battle scenes.

“Davydov sees champagne and feels great. Glinka is glad to everyone. Batyushkov already wants to leave ... " Prilepin narrates in an impromptu scene of joint gatherings of his characters. Focusing on the human aspects of their personalities, Zakhar tries to make the heroes alive in the eyes of the readers. Not only eminent writers and poets, and not only brave warriors, but also ordinary people who, according to his own words, could be invited to visit. Prilepin does not hesitate to sneer at them and their work, allowing himself and his readers to take a lot of things lightly. Well, who else will compare Vyazemsky with Kharms or so freely analyze his "Russian God"? Nobody.

In Platoon, Zakhar Prilepin compares Vyazemsky to Kharms. Photo: zdravrussia.ru

"Platoon. Officers and Militias of Russian Literature ”is an extremely successful and significant project for any connoisseur of good historical literature. But it is remarkable not only for its abundance interesting facts... In one of his interviews Prilepin says that “We must learn to perceive the characters of the Golden Age as our contemporaries” and throughout the book he constructs the narrative in a way that is possible. Whether this makes any sense or is it just an interesting trick is a moot point. The only undeniable fact is that Zakhar Prilepin definitely succeeded in implementing his idea.

Zakhar Prilepin teaches to perceive the characters of the Golden Age as their contemporaries. Photo: Vladimir Andreev

Half a century ago, they were close.

The one who wrote about the people of the Golden Age peered into the dark glass bottle from under the imported beer - and suddenly, as it seemed to him, he began to distinguish between people and situations.

Derzhavin has shaggy eyebrows, his eyes are old and half-blind. Shishkov clenches his stern mouth. Davydov does not want to be drawn in profile - his nose is small. Then he looks in the mirror: no, nothing. Glinka looks sadly out the window; outside the window - the Tver link. Batyushkov is frightened alone in a dark room, abruptly runs out into the hall, barely illuminated by two blinking candles, whispering to the dog - if the dog comes, then ... it means something, the main thing is to remember its name. Hey, how are you. Achilles? Please, Ahi-i-il. He tries to whistle, curls his lips - forgot how. Or rather, I never knew how. Katenin pours half a glass, then, holding the bottle at the ready, ponders and, after a moment, quickly refills the froth. Vyazemsky can hardly restrain a grin. Suddenly it turns out that his heart hurts terribly. He stifles a grin, because if he laughs out loud, he will faint from pain. Chaadaev is bored, but he has already invented a severity and is just waiting for the right moment to utter it wearily. Raevsky is angry and restless. Plays with nodules. Everything inside him is bubbling. Unbearable people, unbearable times! Bestuzhev examines the ladies. The ladies are looking at Bestuzhev: Vera, I assure you, this is the same Marlinsky.

Finally, Pushkin.

Pushkin on horseback, Pushkin cannot be caught up.

A flask of dark glass, thank you.

It was easier for them, who lived then, in the middle of the last century: Bulat, Nathan or, say, Emil - it seems that some of them were called Emil, they were all called rare names. They described the Golden Age as if they were painting with the quietest, floating colors: a hint seemed everywhere, something white, pale behind the bushes, flickered.

The inhabitants of the Golden Age, according to these descriptions, hated and despised tyrants and tyranny. But only ridiculous censors could think that we are talking about tyranny and tyrants. The conversation was about something else, closer, more disgusting.

If you listen attentively to the slow current of novels about the Golden Age, you can discern the murmur of secret speech, understandable only to a select few. Bulat winked at Nathan. Nathan winked at Bulat. The others just blinked.

But in the end, much remained as if unclear, unclear.

Brilliant lieutenants went to the Caucasus - but what were they doing there? Yes, they behaved risky, as if to spite someone. But who shot them, who did they shoot? What kind of highlanders are they? What mountain are they from?

Highlanders from the Caucasus mountain are dangerous people. Mikhail Yuryevich, you would duck. Lev Nikolaevich will be hit at an hour.

Sometimes the lieutenants fought with the Turks, but again no one understood why, why, for what purpose. What, after all, did they want from the Turks? Probably the Turks were the first to start.

Or, say, the Finns - what did they want from the Finns, these lieutenants? Or from the Swedes?

And if, God forbid, the lieutenant found himself in Poland and crushed, like a flower, another Polish revolt - it was generally not accepted to talk about this.

The lieutenant must have got there by accident. He did not want to, but they ordered him, they stamped their feet on him: "Maybe, lieutenant, send you to the depths of Siberian ores?" - I think they were shouting like that.

The authors of the biographies of the lieutenants generously shared their thoughts, aspirations and hopes with their heroes. After all, the authors were sincerely convinced that they had common thoughts, aspirations and hopes, as if a century and a half had not passed. Sometimes they could even compose a poem with them (or even for them): what's the difference when everything is so close.

And what - just a stone's throw: the authors of the biographies were born when Andrei Bely was still alive, or even Sasha Cherny. Akhmatova was even seen with my own eyes. But from Akhmatova half a step to Annensky, and another half step to Tyutchev, and now Pushkin appeared. Two or three handshakes.

He pressed his hand, warmed by a handshake, to a bottle of dark glass: while its warmth was melting, I managed to make out the lines of other hands. And if you put your ear to it? Someone is laughing there; or crying; but the words became legible ...

Now, in our days, you will squeeze one hand, the other - you do not feel anything: even from Lev Nikolaevich you cannot hear greetings - where is there to reach Alexander Sergeevich or Gavrila Romanovich.

For us, living, familiar - Mayakovsky, Yesenin, Pasternak: the same confusion, the same passions, the same neurosis. I don’t regret, I don’t call, I don’t cry, the candle burned on the table, because someone needs it. They spoke in our words, they were no different from us: let me hug you, Sergei Alexandrovich; let your paw squeeze, Vladimir Vladimirovich; ah, Boris Leonidovich, how can that be.

The Silver Age is still close, the Golden Age is almost unattainable.

A bottle of dark glass is no longer suitable for travel to the Golden Age. You twirl it in your hands, twist it, rub it - silence. And did anyone live there ?!

In the Golden Age, you need to tune the odd-eyed radio for a long time, listen attentively to the distant thorn, crackle, tremor, as from another star.

Who is it with? About whom? To whom?

Looking at the Golden Age, you have to direct in its direction a long, like a watchtower, bending telescope. Until itching in your forehead, you peer at the combination of stars, which at first seems spontaneous, random, scattered.

... And then suddenly you discern full face, head position, hand.

There is a pistol in that hand.

Derzhavin involuntarily closed his eyes, expecting a shot, but the cannon still struck unexpectedly; he shuddered and immediately opened his eyes. Everyone around shouted: "Ataman ... their chieftain was killed!., The bastard ran!"

Shishkov rode in a cart along a wall made of frozen corpses. The wall did not end. Mentally, he wondered: this one, I forgot how, the street leading to the Neva - is it shorter? No, definitely shorter.

Davydov stood up in the stirrups, looking for Napoleon. He once met his eyes - on the day of the conclusion of the Peace of Tilsit. But that was a completely different case, then Davydov could not even think that he could see him like that - being on horseback, with a saber at the head, at the head of a detachment of thugs who received the order "Do not bother with the prisoners, my children."

Glinka was amazed at himself: in childhood he could have been frightened to a terrible heartbeat by a suddenly flying bumblebee. Now, bypassing the enemy positions, he even spurred the horse without frenzy, regretted - despite the fact that Glinka was now being hit not even with rifle fire - it is not so easy to hit a galloping horseman from a rifle, but with buckshot.

For some time, Batyushkov thought that he had died and was buried. And they tear it apart in order to shift it more reliably, more conveniently. And they do not dig the earth, but as if they are demolishing it, pulling it together in coalesced heavy layers. Finally, I guessed that he was lying under several corpses, heaped up. When Batyushkov was raised in his arms, he managed to see one of those who crushed him: he was lying on his side with a strange face - one half of his face was calm and even peaceful, the other was monstrously twisted.

Katenin looked at the back of his acquaintance - once a brilliant officer, now demoted to the rank and file. Katenin once wanted to kill him in a duel. Now he, not afraid of the shots, tall, a head taller than Katenin, ran forward with a gun at the ready. Katenin thought: "Maybe shoot him?" - but this thought was frivolous, angry, tired. Katenin spat and raised his own people to attack. Why lie there: it's cold, in the end ...

Vyazemsky listened attentively to the roar of the battle and thought with surprise: but there are people who, unlike me, hearing this roar, understand what and where they are shooting from, and for them all this is as clear as for me - the structure of the stanzas and sounding rhymes. But this is impossible: "... this roar is devoid of any harmony! .." - and listened again.

"Still, this peak is heavy ..." - Chaadaev decided distantly, if not about himself, and at the same moment he clearly saw - although, it would seem, he should not have had time - that the person who had received a blow to the chest with a lance was clearly puzzled. The thought that flashed in his face could be read something like this: “... oh, what is it with me, why there is no more land under my feet, and why such a long flight? Such a pleasant flight, and only a little bit uncomfortable due to the acute heaviness in the chest ... ”Chaadaev's horse rushed past. The pica stood horizontally, like a tree about to blossom. It was March.

Raevsky's gunners rolled out the gun onto the road, he ran into a nearby forest to help roll out the second, and suddenly saw in the distance, on the same road, a whole crowd of enemies. They saw him too. It was necessary to understand: whether to drag the second weapon, or return to the first. Several horsemen were visible among the enemies. Will they be in time, no? "Charge!" - he shouted, looking back to his guys. Frightened by the cry, a bird flew up from the branch. Raevsky ran to the gun, cursing and almost falling. There was some amazing and strange feeling that this bird was his voice ... and now his voice flew away. How will he give the next command?

Making his way through the thickets, Bestuzhev-Marlinsky caught himself on the fact that once again he knew exactly where the shot was about to sound, after how many steps he would reach the last of the retreating and stab him with a bayonet blow, and what else was sitting comfortably on the left, on a tree shooter. Now the shooter will aim at Bestuzhev ... and miss. "And then I will shoot, and I will hit", - Bestuzhev told himself not with lightning-fast sensation, but in separate, calm words. Aim, fired, hit.

... And Pushkin, of course. Pushkin on horseback. Pushkin cannot be caught up.

We had a secret feeling that all these people never existed: because who can live like this - from war to war, from duel to duel.

No, it could not be so, all these are invented characters of some ancient, blind, semi-mythical writer of poems: can you really believe in them?

Nobody does that now; at least from among the writers.

Nevertheless, they lived - real, bleeding, sick, suffering, frightened of wounds, captivity, death.

Their world was not black and white, faded, crumbling. No, he also had colors and paints.

Pushkin was fair-skinned, with more and more brown hair over the years. While he was dark, he laughed much more contagiously. The more channels, the less he smiled.

Vyazemsky was not looking for a career, but it overtook him; fools accused him of being bought by the sovereign, that is why they are fools - there was hardly a person in Russia who cared so little about all this fuss.

Chaadaev, it seems, had an affair with a prostitute in Poland: he left with a shrug. It seemed ridiculous and senseless - something like duels, which, however, he was not afraid of, as well as death in general. Travel became boring very soon; wine - even more so. On common thought, in the end they remained: he himself, the Motherland, God. Shuffle these cards, just shuffle these cards.

Raevsky changed his character when he left the youthful habit of protruding his jaw, which made him ugly. But he stopped sticking out - and something went out in his eyes. His eldest son still remembered his father with such a face, as if he scared someone or played with someone, and the younger ones no longer.

Bestuzhev was a caress, his mother adored him, she could press him to her and stroke his head, he liked it. So affectionate that he shouldn't have fought at all. But Bestuzhev had one anomaly: he was devoid of a sense of fear. What others were overcoming, he passed through. Then, hurting everyone in a row, Bestuzhev biting his hand from stomach pains and growling: to hell with all this, to hell, - it’s not scary at all, but it hurts terribly in the stomach.

For Katenin it turned out like this: he thought much more about culture, about theater, about poetry than about himself. But the world did not reciprocate to him so much that no matter what he talked about, it always turned out that about himself, about his irritation. Many did not like this, but not Pushkin. Pushkin understood everything about Katenin. A person has never been born in the world who could appreciate Katenin to the same extent as Pushkin.

Batyushkov was afraid to sleep and when he woke up, not yet opening his eyes, he checked his state of mind, naming the objects in the room and remembering their location. All the time I forgot one candlestick, in the very corner, completely unnecessary there.

Glinka seriously believed that his dreams are as complete as reality. No, from some day they became even more complete. He wrote more about them than about the prison.

Davydov was an unusually sane person - one of the most sane and calm people in Russian literature. Denis Vasilyevich rarely wrote poetry because of his mental health: why? Well, there will be one more rhyme - I wrote two the year before last, where there are so many ... Now to attack, horseback, unexpected - that would be fun.

To Shishkov, killing seemed monstrous and impossible; much better to have some candy, or, for example, raisins. But Fatherland? Fatherland seemed to him alive to such an extent that he wanted to give him hot milk, wrap him up, hide him. The feeling for his mother, whom he had so rarely seen and wanted to see so much, was superimposed on a patriotic feeling.

And what about Derzhavin? Derzhavin treated himself well, because he knew his worth. To die in war was, from his point of view, an unreasonable waste of human material.

At some point - probably it was still in the Preobrazhensky regiment - he was surprised to notice that all the people around him were dumber than him. Not that they are generally stupid, but their motivations and actions are most often predictable. This surprised him, but not very much: he quickly got used to it.

He was not ambitious. I just knew I was worthy of a lot.

Derzhavin was not one of those who sincerely believe that he is talking to the Gods. He was the first in the opposite sense: to realize the inconceivable vastness of the distance to God. However, he did not leave hope to drive this distance into a line.

He also turned out to be one of the first in our poetry who knew exactly the weight, the price of Russian words and, it seems, even their color. These were not just words with their meanings - there was an invisible power in their sound, their unexpected combinations struck sparks. Derzhavin built a speech and conducted it, forcing the words entrusted to him to rumble, scream, squeak, march, sing in chorus, wave banners.

In essence, Derzhavin was not a military man, but he understood the meaning of the war at the level of not only political, but also musical.

… Over the years, he also became tight-fisted, loved to talk about himself, his merits. So I would have listened, as they praised him, and I would have listened.

All of them, all of them were just people. You can take courage and invite them to visit.

Derzhavin stomps in the hallway, knocking down the snow. Shishkov drove up to the next block and decided to walk from there on foot. Davydov sees champagne and feels great. Glinka is glad to everyone. Batyushkov already wants to leave. Katenin won't come at all while Vyazemsky is here. Vyazemsky will never decide what is more in him: irritation at Davydov or love for this impossible, light, fearless person. Chaadaev said he was sick. Raevsky is far away, but he sent a detailed letter. Bestuzhev is even further, but also writes.

Finally, Pushkin.

Pushkin will appear soon.

“God is with us, with us; honor all rossa "
Lieutenant Gavrila Derzhavin

Oh ross! O generous clan!
O rock-hard chest!
O giant, obedient to the king!
When and where do you reach
Couldn't you be worthy of glory?
Your labors are fun for you;
Your crowns are all around the glitter of thunder;
Is there a fight in the fields - you darken the starry vault,
Is there a battle in the seas - you foaming the abyss, -
Everywhere you are the fear of your enemies.

Like water, from the mountains in spring to the valley
Falling down, foaming, roaring,
Waves, ice shake the dam,
To the strongholds of the Ross are so flowing.
Nothing educates them in the way;
Whether the regiment meets pale deaths,
Or hell rattles its mouth to them, -
They go - as thunder is hidden in the clouds,
How are the silent ho? Lms moved;
There is a groan beneath them, smoke behind them.

The poems are from Derzhavin.

Gavrila Romanovich Derzhavin - ten years as a soldier, and four more years as an officer. Saying such toasts, he understood who he was talking about, and he could drink for himself, having finished speaking.

Derzhavin - as well as Denis Davydov and, according to family legends, Konstantin Batyushkov, as well as Alexander Suvorov and Mikhail Kutuzov - came from a Tatar family.

The phrase "Rub a Russian - you will find a Tatar" has nothing to do with common people. Slavic glade women, who were taken to the Horde, gave birth to Tatar chicks. Rather, the Horde peoples should be rubbed for the detection of Slavic blood. “Rub a Tatar - you will find a Russian” - this is how this phrase may sound too.

And the leisurely proposal to rub the Russian in order to find the Tatar was born, most likely, in connection with the Russification of the numerous noble Horde families who joined the Russian aristocracy. That is, in fact, there is nothing humiliating for a Russian person in this proverb, because its meaning is something like this: if you rub another Russian nobleman, you will find a Tatar who once came to serve the Russian Tsar. The Yusupovs, Sheremetevs, Rostopchins are all descendants of the Murzas.

However, no matter how much you look at the portraits of Derzhavin, nothing Tatar is found there. Apparently, it was erased over the centuries of service.

Meanwhile, he himself often called himself "Murza". From his poems:

I sang, I sing and I will sing them
And in jokes I will proclaim the truth;
Tatar songs from under the bus,
As a ray, I will inform the posterity.

What Blok would later scare (the Scythian and Asiatic in the Russian character), Derzhavin still had in an ironic context. But these jokes had genealogical reasons.

His old ancestor - Murza Brahim - was actually baptized by Prince Vasily II the Dark. In baptism, Brahim became Elijah, receiving estates near Vladimir, Novgorod and Nizhny Novgorod... Different surnames came from the sons of Brahim, including the Narbekovs. One of the Narbekovs had a son named Derzhava. Derzhavins went from him.

"The lands, however, were split between the heirs," writes Vladislav Khodasevich in the book "Derzhavin", "were sold out, laid down, and already Roman Nikolaevich Derzhavin, who was born in 1706, got only a few scattered scraps."

Born on July 3, 1743, Gavrila Romanovich Derzhavin was named after the Archangel Gabriel, celebrated on July 13. Place of birth: Kazan district, the village of either Karmachi or Sokura; he himself considered, so as not to waste time on trifles, his hometown - Kazan. Murza!

Derzhavin writes about himself: "In infancy he was very small, weak and dry, so that, according to the unenlightenment and folk custom of that time in that region, he had to be baked in bread." (due to the fact that he lived his life as a healthy, three-core man, apparently, they still baked it: I would like to look at this blinking flour product.)

Throughout his childhood, he followed his father through the military garrisons (Yaransk, Vyatka, Stavropol-on-Volga, Orenburg); since then, serving life did not frighten him. But we will not say that he was very eager for her.

The poet's father retired as a lieutenant colonel, and died a year later. The mother, Fyokla Andreevna (also the daughter of a military man), has three children in her arms, eleven-year-old Gavrila is the eldest.

Lived poorly; 15 rubles of the debt left after the death of his father was completely impossible to pay at first; a lot of lawsuits with greedy and peeping neighbors. Serfs had a family of ten souls.

Gavrila studied at the Kazan gymnasium. In many subjects (except mathematics) he was one of the best students; the university newspaper wrote about him. There also took place a discouraging acquaintance with the Russian piety, which conquered the ear and the mind: the big-headed Lomonosov (“Bor and dol is rustling with streams: /“ Victory, Russian victory! ”/ But the enemy that left the sword / Is afraid of his own trace”), followed by the thoroughbred Sumarokov ("A fiery sea has opened up, / The earth trembles and the firmament groans, / In the shelves of sratsin's fear and grief, / Seething rage, execution and death. our poetry began.

Poetic Russian word(we are talking, of course, about secular poetry) arose not as a lyrical murmur, but as a victorious - in honor of military, offensive, victorious glory - fireworks.

From the gymnasium in 1762, at the age of eighteen, Derzhavin was transferred to the Preobrazhensky regiment, in St. Petersburg, as a private. He served with the recruits recruited from the serfs, and lived, out of poverty, in the same barracks with the soldiers (three married and two single, considers it important to mention Derzhavin in his autobiography).

Khodasevich: “He was dressed in the uniform of the Preobrazhensky regiment. It was a short, dark green uniform of the Holstein pattern with gold tabs; a yellow jacket was visible from under the uniform; pants are also yellow; on the head - a powdered wig with a thick braid bent upwards; over the ears sticking out bouclies, glued together with thick greasy lipstick. "

Derzhavin himself: "The strange outfit seemed very wonderful, so that he drew the eyes of the stupid."

Further, out of false modesty, he writes about himself in the third person: “... the wingman was ordered to teach rifle techniques and frunt service ... at night, when everyone had settled down, he read books, what happened where to get it, German and Russian, and dirtied poetry without any rules, which, however, no matter how much he hid, he could not hide from his companions (meaning: fellow soldiers. – Z.P.), and even more from their wives; that's why they started asking him to write letters to their relatives in the villages. "

(Mores in Russian army do not change, as we can see, for centuries.)

Platoon. Officers and militias of Russian literature

Foreword

Distinctive silhouettes

Half a century ago, they were close.

The one who wrote about the people of the Golden Age peered into a dark glass bottle from under imported beer - and suddenly, as it seemed to him, he began to distinguish between people and situations.

Derzhavin has shaggy eyebrows, his eyes are old and half-blind. Shishkov clenches his stern mouth. Davydov does not want to be drawn in profile - his nose is small. Then he looks in the mirror: no, nothing. Glinka looks sadly out the window; outside the window - the Tver link. Batiushkov is frightened alone in a dark room, abruptly runs out into the hall, barely illuminated by two blinking candles, whispering to the dog - if the dog comes, then ... it means something, the main thing is to remember its name. Hey, how are you. Achilles? Please, Ahi-i-il. He tries to whistle, curls his lips - forgot how. Or rather, I never knew how. Katenin pours half a glass, then, holding the bottle at the ready, ponders and, after a moment, quickly refills the froth. Vyazemsky can hardly restrain a grin. Suddenly it turns out that his heart hurts terribly. He stifles a grin, because if he laughs out loud, he will faint from pain. Chaadaev is bored, but he has already invented a severity and is just waiting for the right moment to utter it wearily. Raevsky is angry and restless. Plays with nodules. Everything inside him is bubbling. Unbearable people, unbearable times! Bestuzhev examines the ladies. The ladies are looking at Bestuzhev: Vera, I assure you, this is the same Marlinsky.

Finally, Pushkin.

Pushkin on horseback, Pushkin cannot be caught up.

A flask of dark glass, thank you.

It was easier for them, who lived then, in the middle of the last century: Bulat, Nathan, or, say, Emil - it seems that some of them were called Emil, they were all called by rare names. They described the Golden Age as if they were painting with the quietest, floating colors: everywhere there was a hint, something white, pale behind the bushes, flickered.

The inhabitants of the Golden Age, according to these descriptions, hated and despised tyrants and tyranny. But only ridiculous censors could think that we are talking about tyranny and tyrants. The conversation was about something else, closer, more disgusting ...

If you listen attentively to the slow current of novels about the Golden Age, you can discern the murmur of secret speech, understandable only to a select few. Bulat winked at Nathan. Nathan winked at Bulat. The others just blinked.

But in the end, much remained as if unclear, unclear.

Brilliant lieutenants went to the Caucasus - but what were they doing there? Yes, they behaved risky, as if to spite someone. But who shot them, who did they shoot? What kind of highlanders are they? What mountain are they from?

Highlanders from the Caucasus mountain are dangerous people. Mikhail Yuryevich, you would duck. Lev Nikolaevich will be hit at an hour.

Sometimes the lieutenants fought with the Turks, but again no one understood why, why, for what purpose. What, after all, did they want from the Turks? Probably the Turks were the first to start.

Or, say, the Finns - what did they want from the Finns, these lieutenants? Or from the Swedes?

And if, God forbid, the lieutenant found himself in Poland and crushed, like a flower, another Polish revolt - it was generally not accepted to talk about this. The lieutenant must have got there by accident. He did not want to, but they ordered him, they stamped their feet on him: "Maybe, lieutenant, send you to the depths of Siberian ores?" - I think they were shouting like that.

And Peter the Great, who alone is The World History?! And Catherine II, who put Russia on the threshold of Europe ?! And Alexander, who brought us to Paris ?! And (in all honesty) don't you find something significant in the current situation in Russia, something that will amaze a future historian? Do you think he will put us outside Europe? Although personally I am cordially attached to the sovereign, I am far from admiring everything that I see around me; as a writer - I am annoyed, as a person with prejudices - I am offended; but I swear on my honor that for nothing in the world I would not want to change my Fatherland or have another history, except for the history of our ancestors, as God gave it to us.

(A.S. Pushkin to P.Ya. Chaadaev)

Zakhar Prilepin is a universal soldier of modern Russian literature, gradually emerging from the confusion and disarray of the previous era. Writer, journalist, TV presenter, publicist, public figure, Major of the DPR army - he is enough for everything, in any genre he acts as a master, and most importantly, he is one and complete in his artistic and life-creating diversity.

One and whole, because he believes that the thousand-year, as he puts it, “linear” history of our Fatherland continues, that its best - heroic, patriotic, spirit-uplifting - pages have not turned yellow, but breathe modernity and are able to teach us a lot that “ circle ", along which, as many believe, we have been walking in vain century after century, is the correct circle, and sooner or later we will be followed by a" civilized Europe "exhausted by tolerance, that Russia will once again (after 1917) offer the world a new ideology -" mix "from the left economy, expansive foreign policy, Orthodoxy and a sense of great responsibility before the space of Russia, which he considers meaningful and eternal.

One can agree with these promises, one can argue, but Zakhar Prilepin defends them in word and deed, a way of life, in which the advanced trench on the line of confrontation between the DPR army and the Armed Forces of Ukraine is organically supplemented and continued by the studio on REN-TV.

His "Platoon" should be read, because in it Prilepin, restraining his polemical temperament, diligently plays the role of a chronicler, gives the floor to his heroes - their poems, correspondence, memoirs, documents, testimonies of contemporaries and eyewitnesses. They are Lieutenant Gavrila Derzhavin, Admiral Alexander Shishkov, Lieutenant General Denis Davydov, Colonel Fedor Glinka, Staff Captain Konstantin Batyushkov, Major General Pavel Katenin, Cornet Pyotr Vyazemsky, Captain Peter Chaadaev, Major Vladimir Raevansky Alexander Best Marlinsky - and their combat path and literary searches, their reflections and assessments, their meandering and contradictory, now their straight and unwavering line of life speak for themselves. They speak strikingly clearly, convincingly and acutely. Let's listen:

Colonel Fyodor Glinka: “In Europe and in our country ... the opinion has spread that society is painful, is already on its deathbed, andYou must finish him off with an ice pick ... Others decided to heal wounds with mockery. But what is mockery? A needle smeared with bile: it pricks, annoys, but does not heal at all. Vinegar cannot soothe wounds; they need the oil of wisdom. The ancient prophets - God's ambassadors - did not play humor, did not laugh, but cried. A tear should tremble in the voice of the accuser, as in beautiful soulful music. This tear falls on the heart and revives a person. "

All officers and militias of Zakhar Prilepin's "Platoon" (with the exception of Lieutenant Gavrila Derzhavin and Staff Captain Alexander Bestuzhev-Marlinsky) are heroes covered with "the glory of a wonderful campaign / And the eternal memory of the twelfth year" (Pushkin). And all, without exception, were literary men who skillfully held in their hand not only a pen, but also a sword, saber or gun. And everyone, without exception, realized that in the face of an external or internal military threat, one should not reflect, but defend the Fatherland with arms in hand and, to the best of talent, glorify its power and glory. This position cements the Prilepin Platoon, but does not deprive each fighter of individuality. And here we need to make one necessary remark. We knew or guessed that the heroes of Platoon fought even without Prilepin's book. But they knew fluently, vaguely, in the amount of a couple of lines in a school textbook or a couple of paragraphs in a scientific monograph. I myself, at one time engaged in Pushkin's "anti-Polish" odes, faced this stinginess, behind which stood, on the one hand, a feeling of awkwardness for the fact that XVIII-XIX centuries Russia was an empire with all its inherent qualities and manifestations, and on the other hand, the forced political correctness of Soviet criticism and literary criticism. It was understood that there was no need to once again, let alone in detail, talk about the tragic episodes in the history of our relations with Poland, France, Austria, Germany, Turkey, Sweden, all the more so about the Caucasian wars. And our researchers unwittingly shared the fears of Gogol's Manilov: "... wouldn't this be an undertaking or, to put it even more, so to speak, a negotiation, - so wouldn't this negotiation be inconsistent with civil regulations and further types of Russia?" This shyness and "political correctness" eventually played a cruel joke on us: generations grew up that represented the Europe of the century before last as the stronghold and peak of humanism, progress and civilization, the highlanders were noble abreks, and Russian empire- a stupid aggressor, a strangler of freedoms and a "prison of peoples". Even the tragic experience of World War II, the two Chechen campaigns and the current confrontation in Donbass did not teach everyone. Zakhar Prilepin seems to be the first who spoke in detail about the army, combat unit of the biographies of his heroes. Those who were proud of their participation in military campaigns, did not suffer from any syndromes about this, although they went to bayonet and cavalry attacks, stood under cannonballs and canister, saw mountains of corpses of comrades-in-arms and enemies and made their combat experience a source of creativity. By the way, about the bayonet attacks of the 1812-1814 campaign, it is worth saying in more detail: “What could an infantry formation attacking a battery count on? With a brisk step, turning into a run, the soldier covered the last 400 meters in 3.5-4 minutes. During this time, the gun could fire up to a dozen shots containing about a thousand buckshot bullets ... And here the infantry had to rely only on the moral factor. The fast and orderly movement of the infantry mass forced the artillerymen to accelerate their actions and from this to make almost inevitable mistakes ... Accuracy, and sometimes the speed of firing fell "(historian Ilya Ulanov). Is it any wonder that in the three-day massacre at Kulm, the Semyonovsky Guards Regiment, in which Pyotr Chaadaev served, lost 900 people killed and wounded out of 1800 payroll personnel. Prilepin's Platoon is a detailed story that courage does not contradict emotional responsiveness, fortitude does not contradict lyrical moods, loyalty to duty and patriotic impulse - freedom of thought and independence of judgment. People at the turn of the 18th-9th centuries knew how to combine one thing with the other, because over all this contradictory variety of impressions, emotional reactions, internal states, the main value for them was built on - the Fatherland in the root meaning of this word: the land of the fathers, the sacred space in which only it is possible them, yours and our common self-determination, self-affirmation and self-reliance. Perhaps Admiral Alexander Shishkov realized this more fully and more accurately than others, so his pen wrote out lines of manifestos, surprising in their power of influence on contemporaries, read in public places on behalf of Alexander I: “The adversary has entered our borders and continues to carry his weapons inside Russia, hoping to shake the peace of this Great Power by force and temptations ... With slyness in his heart and flattery in his lips, he carries chains and fetters eternal for us ... May he find his faithful sons at every step Russia, striking him with all means and forces, not listening to any of his guile and deception. May he meet in every nobleman of Parsky, in every spiritual Palitsyn, in every citizen of Minin ... The Holy Synod and all the clergy! You have always invoked grace on the head of Russia with your warm prayers; Russian people! Brave offspring of the brave Slavs! You have repeatedly crushed the teeth of the lions and tigers rushing at you! Unite everything with the cross in your soul and arms in your hands, and no human forces will prevail over you. " Prilepin quotes Count Fyodor Rostopchin (Notes on 1812): “I was amazed at the impression that the reading of the manifesto made. Anger was revealed first; but when Shishkov brought to the point that the enemy was walking with flattery on his lips, not with chains in his hand, then indignation burst out and reached its climax: those present ... tore off their hair ... it was clear how tears of rage flowed down these faces ... "The Platoon heroes - both professional military men and militias - thought of themselves as an integral part of this sacred space, which helped them suppress the fear of pain and death, find a high meaning in the war and pass it on to their contemporaries and descendants by means available to them. Sometimes they are quite unexpected. Prilepin cites an epitaph composed by Major General Pavel Katenin and engraved on his tombstone: “Pavel, the son of Alexander, from the Katenin family, honestly outlived his life, served the Fatherland with faith and truth, fought to the death in Kulma, but fate spared him. I didn’t do evil, and I didn’t do any good, than I wanted. ” Prilepin comments: "Sounds amazing." Agree. The vast material revealed to Prilepin cannot but evoke analogies and generalizations. And no matter how Zakhar restrains himself, he still draws some fundamental analogies for himself and makes generalizations. So, in the chapter dedicated to Admiral Alexander Shishkov (especially rich in texture and warmed by the warmth of the author's sympathy for the hero), Prilepin notes: “Shishkov's summons to the summits government controlled in 1812 and his quick removal shortly after the victory - in a sense, our tradition. At first, in a time of military confrontation, frantic zealots and patriots of the Fatherland are suddenly needed. At the end of the war, it turns out every time that their views on life are too harsh and, in general, they need to behave a little more calmly; and then from your "to the gun" and "you are Russian!" a little muddied, sir. " I believe that even today, someone is "muddied" by the passage of this "retrograde" and "old dummy": “A person who considers himself a citizen of the world, that is, does not belong to any nation, does the same, no matter how he recognizes his father, mother, clan, or tribe. He, escaping from the race of people, classifies himself as one of the race of animals. What monster does not love his mother? But is the Fatherland not less than our mother? The repulsion from this unnatural thought is so great that no matter what we put in a person bad morality and shamelessness; even if they imagined that there might be someone who really harbors hatred of his Fatherland in his depraved soul; however, he too would be ashamed to publicly and loudly admit that. And how can you not be ashamed? All ages, all nations, earth and heaven would have cried out against him: hell alone would have applauded him. " As well as from the caustic judgments of the "father of Russian liberalism" Cornet Pyotr Vyazemsky: “You (Pushkin, it was written to him in 1825 - V.Ch.) planted flowers, not conforming to the climate ... The opposition - we have a fruitless and empty craft in all respects: it can be home handicrafts for themselves and in honor of their ancestors ... but it cannot be a craft. It is not valued by the people. Believe that they remember you from your poems, but they won't talk about your disgrace in a year and twice ... You serve something that we do not have ... " Continuing analogies and generalizations, Zakhar Prilepin reminds readers: “From the embittered European reaction to the suppression of the uprising in Poland, it became clear that the victories of 1812 and 1814 were not forgiven for Russia there. And those who lost to the Russians did not forgive, and those who owed their independence to Russia, too! Everyone was depressed that these barbarians began to play such an important role in Europe. Russia turned out to be too visible, too huge, she had the audacity to speak with everyone on an equal footing and even from a position of strength. What does she think of herself? " Today it is obvious that we have not been forgiven for the 1945 Victory either. And, alas, not only in Europe, but also in the relatively recently breakaway “near abroad”. Another generalization of Prilepin concerns more than two centuries of the ongoing litigation between the "liberals" and the "patriots" and "statists". Here, a remarkable and instructive chapter is about the cornet Peter Vyazemsky, who began his long life path as "the leader of the liberal gang", and ended as a convinced patriot. In 1832, he wrote to Pushkin about his poem "Slanderers of Russia":

“I am so tired of these geographic fanfare of ours: from Perm to Taurida and so on. What good is there, what is there to be happy about and what to boast about, that we are lying in a stretch, that we have five thousand miles from thought to thought, that physical Russia is Fedor, and moral Russia is a fool ?! "

And in 1849 he composes "Steppe":

Versts and space are sinking

In your infinity.

Sad! But you are sad

Do not defame and do not speak evil:

Warmed in her soul

Love glimmers holy.

The steppes are bare, dumb,

All the same, you are both a song and an honor!

All of you are mother Russia,

Whatever it is.

It is his path that allows Prilepin to draw an “eternal and unchanging” portrait of a domestic liberal: “Vyazemsky, as a liberal, formed, in fact, from the same components that in the next century will go to the construction of liberal convictions: the inevitable belief that Russia is part of Europe that outside of it we were barbarians and barbarians will remain; incessant sarcasm; chronic skepticism about national signs: well, what do you care about your icy unbearable winter? Have you seen your cockroaches? with a terrible mustache? an all-time exhortation on the topic: stop rattling swords, think better about freedom; and to top it off, like a vignette, polonophilia. "

And these are far from all the parallels and analogies that Prilepin himself draws or we draw when reading his historical and literary research.

Zakhar Prilepin's Platoon is a very timely book. Not because he skillfully selected the heroes and material, but because he gave the heroes and the material to speak out without cuts and exceptions.

Russia has no past. She's all real. In every sense of the word.

Interview with Zakhar Prilepin, which he gave to our magazine, read

Half a century ago, they were close.

The one who wrote about the people of the Golden Age peered into the dark glass bottle from under the imported beer - and suddenly, as it seemed to him, he began to distinguish between people and situations.

Derzhavin has shaggy eyebrows, his eyes are old and half-blind. Shishkov clenches his stern mouth. Davydov does not want to be drawn in profile - his nose is small. Then he looks in the mirror: no, nothing. Glinka looks sadly out the window; outside the window - the Tver link. Batyushkov is frightened alone in a dark room, abruptly runs out into the hall, barely illuminated by two blinking candles, whispering to the dog - if the dog comes, then ... it means something, the main thing is to remember its name. Hey, how are you. Achilles? Please, Ahi-i-il. He tries to whistle, curls his lips - forgot how. Or rather, I never knew how. Katenin pours half a glass, then, holding the bottle at the ready, ponders and, after a moment, quickly refills the froth. Vyazemsky can hardly restrain a grin. Suddenly it turns out that his heart hurts terribly. He stifles a grin, because if he laughs out loud, he will faint from pain. Chaadaev is bored, but he has already invented a severity and is just waiting for the right moment to utter it wearily. Raevsky is angry and restless. Plays with nodules. Everything inside him is bubbling. Unbearable people, unbearable times! Bestuzhev examines the ladies. The ladies are looking at Bestuzhev: Vera, I assure you, this is the same Marlinsky.

Finally, Pushkin.

Pushkin on horseback, Pushkin cannot be caught up.

A flask of dark glass, thank you.

It was easier for them, who lived then, in the middle of the last century: Bulat, Nathan or, say, Emil - it seems that some of them were called Emil, they were all called rare names. They described the Golden Age as if they were painting with the quietest, floating colors: a hint seemed everywhere, something white, pale behind the bushes, flickered.

The inhabitants of the Golden Age, according to these descriptions, hated and despised tyrants and tyranny. But only ridiculous censors could think that we are talking about tyranny and tyrants. The conversation was about something else, closer, more disgusting.

If you listen attentively to the slow current of novels about the Golden Age, you can discern the murmur of secret speech, understandable only to a select few. Bulat winked at Nathan. Nathan winked at Bulat. The others just blinked.

But in the end, much remained as if unclear, unclear.

Brilliant lieutenants went to the Caucasus - but what were they doing there? Yes, they behaved risky, as if to spite someone. But who shot them, who did they shoot? What kind of highlanders are they? What mountain are they from?

Highlanders from the Caucasus mountain are dangerous people. Mikhail Yuryevich, you would duck. Lev Nikolaevich will be hit at an hour.

Sometimes the lieutenants fought with the Turks, but again no one understood why, why, for what purpose. What, after all, did they want from the Turks? Probably the Turks were the first to start.

Or, say, the Finns - what did they want from the Finns, these lieutenants? Or from the Swedes?

And if, God forbid, the lieutenant found himself in Poland and crushed, like a flower, another Polish revolt - it was generally not accepted to talk about this. The lieutenant must have got there by accident. He did not want to, but they ordered him, they stamped their feet on him: "Maybe, lieutenant, send you to the depths of Siberian ores?" - I think they were shouting like that.

The authors of the biographies of the lieutenants generously shared their thoughts, aspirations and hopes with their heroes. After all, the authors were sincerely convinced that they had common thoughts, aspirations and hopes, as if a century and a half had not passed. Sometimes they could even compose a poem with them (or even for them): what's the difference when everything is so close.

And what - just a stone's throw: the authors of the biographies were born when Andrei Bely was still alive, or even Sasha Cherny. Akhmatova was even seen with my own eyes. But from Akhmatova half a step to Annensky, and another half step to Tyutchev, and now Pushkin appeared. Two or three handshakes.

He pressed his hand, warmed by a handshake, to a bottle of dark glass: while its warmth was melting, I managed to make out the lines of other hands. And if you put your ear to it? Someone is laughing there; or crying; but the words became legible ...

Now, in our days, you will squeeze one hand, the other - you do not feel anything: even from Lev Nikolaevich you cannot hear greetings - where is there to reach Alexander Sergeevich or Gavrila Romanovich.

For us, living, familiar - Mayakovsky, Yesenin, Pasternak: the same confusion, the same passions, the same neurosis. I don’t regret, I don’t call, I don’t cry, the candle burned on the table, because someone needs it. They spoke in our words, they were no different from us: let me hug you, Sergei Alexandrovich; let your paw squeeze, Vladimir Vladimirovich; ah, Boris Leonidovich, how can that be.

The Silver Age is still close, the Golden Age is almost unattainable.

A bottle of dark glass is no longer suitable for travel to the Golden Age. You twirl it in your hands, twist it, rub it - silence. And did anyone live there ?!

In the Golden Age, you need to tune the odd-eyed radio for a long time, listen attentively to the distant thorn, crackle, tremor, as from another star.

Who is it with? About whom? To whom?

Looking at the Golden Age, you have to direct in its direction a long, like a watchtower, bending telescope. Until itching in your forehead, you peer at the combination of stars, which at first seems spontaneous, random, scattered.

... And then suddenly you discern full face, head position, hand.

There is a pistol in that hand.

Derzhavin involuntarily closed his eyes, expecting a shot, but the cannon still struck unexpectedly; he shuddered and immediately opened his eyes. Everyone around shouted: "Ataman ... their chieftain was killed!., The bastard ran!"

Shishkov rode in a cart along a wall made of frozen corpses. The wall did not end. Mentally, he wondered: this one, I forgot how, the street leading to the Neva - is it shorter? No, definitely shorter.

Davydov stood up in the stirrups, looking for Napoleon. He once met his eyes - on the day of the conclusion of the Peace of Tilsit. But that was a completely different case, then Davydov could not even think that he could see him like that - being on horseback, with a saber at the head, at the head of a detachment of thugs who received the order "Do not bother with the prisoners, my children."

Glinka was amazed at himself: in childhood he could have been frightened to a terrible heartbeat by a suddenly flying bumblebee. Now, bypassing the enemy positions, he even spurred the horse without frenzy, regretted - despite the fact that Glinka was now being hit not even with rifle fire - it is not so easy to hit a galloping horseman from a rifle, but with buckshot.

For some time, Batyushkov thought that he had died and was buried. And they tear it apart in order to shift it more reliably, more conveniently. And they do not dig the earth, but as if they are demolishing it, pulling it together in coalesced heavy layers. Finally, I guessed that he was lying under several corpses, heaped up. When Batyushkov was raised in his arms, he managed to see one of those who crushed him: he was lying on his side with a strange face - one half of his face was calm and even peaceful, the other was monstrously twisted.

Katenin looked at the back of his acquaintance - once a brilliant officer, now demoted to the rank and file. Katenin once wanted to kill him in a duel. Now he, not afraid of the shots, tall, a head taller than Katenin, ran forward with a gun at the ready. Katenin thought: "Maybe shoot him?" - but this thought was frivolous, angry, tired. Katenin spat and raised his own people to attack. Why lie there: it's cold, in the end ...

Vyazemsky listened attentively to the roar of the battle and thought with surprise: but there are people who, unlike me, hearing this roar, understand what and where they are shooting from, and for them all this is as clear as for me - the structure of the stanzas and sounding rhymes. But this is impossible: "... this roar is devoid of any harmony! .." - and listened again.

"Still, this peak is heavy ..." - Chaadaev decided distantly, if not about himself, and at the same moment he clearly saw - although, it would seem, he should not have had time - that the person who had received a blow to the chest with a lance was clearly puzzled. The thought that flashed in his face could be read something like this: “... oh, what is it with me, why there is no more land under my feet, and why such a long flight? Such a pleasant flight, and only a little bit uncomfortable due to the acute heaviness in the chest ... ”Chaadaev's horse rushed past. The pica stood horizontally, like a tree about to blossom. It was March.