January 10, 1866
A 73-year-old man died in Paris. Petr Pletnev — poet, publicist, literary critic. Friend of Pushkin and publisher of Sovremennik.
Slave of thoughts, slave of proud muses
And embraced by inseparable passion,
I would tire out their discerning taste
A conversation of boring credulity
(Pletnev to Pushkin)
Born in 1792, into a clergyman's family.
After graduating from the Pedagogical Institute in Petersburg, worked as a teacher in women's institutes, cadet corps and gymnasiums.
From 36, on recommendation Vasily Zhukovsky, taught literature to the future emperor Alexander II and the Grand Duchesses.
He lectured on Russian literature at St. Petersburg University. In 1840, at 48, he became its rector, a post he held for over 20 years.
He began writing elegies, epistles, and ballads in his youth. In the 1810s, he entered literary circles, studying with Karamzin and Batyushkov. In 1817, he met Pushkin (who was 18, Pletnev 25) and gradually became close to him.
Many of us rightly complain about the small number of poems that could be called national. Our poets, carried away by the beauty of the common, seem to flee from their own. Pushkin's "The Song of the Prophetic Oleg" should be a model for all who attempt to write in this vein.
Since 1826, upon Pushkin’s return from exile, Pletnev became one of his close friends; the novel “Eugene Onegin” is dedicated to him.
Accept the gathering of colorful heads,
Half-funny, half-sad,
Common folk, ideal,
The careless fruit of my amusements,
Insomnia, light inspirations,
Of immature and withered years,
The mind of cold observations
And the hearts of sorrowful notes
(Pushkin to Pletnev)
By that time, he was a prominent writer and publisher—he edited the magazine "Northern Flowers" with Baron Delvig. He also published Pushkin's works, publishing over 20 of his books.
I was everything to him - a relative, a friend, a publisher, and a cashier.
In a few verses, he will gather to your soul all that life offers of beauty, enchant you, and in an instant take it all away with the terrible disillusionment that it quickly disappears. Such power over the soul, such strength over the heart, I consider the most perfect poetry.
Because of his friendship with the disgraced poet, he came under the “secret and constant surveillance” of the gendarmes.
Court Councillor Pletnev knows Pushkin as a writer, oversees the printing of his works, and sends him the proceeds from their sale.
Exemplary behavior, a quiet and secluded life, and a modest and even timid character. However, it has been verbally promised that he will be kept under surveillance.
(from a secret note from the Chief of the Imperial General Staff to the Governor-General of St. Petersburg Golenishchev-Kutuzov, 1826)
Pushkin, in turn, was not very fond of Pletnev’s poetry and critical essays.
Pletnev is more suited to prose than poetry; he has no feeling, no liveliness; his style is pale as a corpse.
Brother Pletnev! Don't write kind criticism! Be sharp-tongued and avoid cloying!
In 1838, after the poet's death, he became the successor to his journal, Sovremennik, editing and publishing the magazine. He championed the idea of "folk" poetry. He believed that poets are born, not made, and that the poet's primary task is to refine poetic forms and language.
In his later years he moved away from poetry and concentrated on criticism.
Day after day, passing by in an unknown corner,
I love the protective darkness of my fate.
Abandoned life, by the will of providence,
It became a stronghold for me from the stormy excitement
Published Zhukovsky, Krylov, Baratynsky и Gogol: He wrote one of the best reviews of Dead Souls. He enthusiastically described the works of the then-budding writers. Turgenev, Dostoevsky, Pisemsky, Ostrovsky, Belinsky.
My story is all in you
In 1846, due to financial problems and the magazine’s “isolation” from the new literary life, he leased it out Panaev и Nekrasov for 10 years.
In 1863 he left with his family to Paris Due to deteriorating health, he died in St. Petersburg and two years later.
I wait in vain. With my love.
To poetry, with deep longing in my soul,
Perhaps I am under the storm of terrible days
I bow to the ground like a lonely poplar
