GOGOL.

1. With the departure of the eighteenth century there also disappeared

from Russia that dazzling glitter which for well-nigh half a century had

blinded the eyes of Europe. Catherine was now dead, Potyomkin was dead,

Suvorof was living an exile in a village, and Panin was idle on his

estates. And now stripped of its coat of whitewash, autocracy stood bare

in all its blackness. Instead of mother-Catherine, Paul was now ruling,

and right fatherly he ruled! Such terror was inspired by this emperor,

that at the sight of their father-Tsar his subjects at last began to

scamper in all directions like a troop of mice at the sight of a cat.

For half a decade Russia was thus held in terror, until the rule of the

maniac could no longer be endured. At last Panin originates, Pahlen

organizes, and Benigsen executes a plan, the accomplishment of which

finds Paul on the morrow lying in state with a purple face, and the

marks of the shawl which strangled him carefully hid by a high collar.

"His Majesty died of apoplexy," the populace is told. Alexander the

Benign comes upon the throne, greeted, indeed, by his subjects, in the

ecstasy of the delivery, like an angel, but cursed by them as a demon

ere the five-and-twenty years of his rule have passed. The Holy

Alliance, Shishkof and Arakcheyef were more than even Russians could

endure, and formidable protest is at last made by the armed force of the

Decembrists. The protest fails; five bodies swinging from the gallows,

and a hundred exiles buried in Siberia alive, leave a monument of such

failure terrible in its ghastliness even for Russian history. The iron

hand of Nicholas now rests on the country, and for thirty years the

autocrat can proudly say that now order reigns in Russia. Order? Yes;

but it is the order and quiet of the graveyard, the peace of death.

2. But not all is quiet. Defeated on the field of arms, the spirit of

protest seeks and at last finds a battle-field where neither the

trampling hoofs of horses nor the shot of cannon can avail. The spirit

of man intrenches itself behind ideas, behind letters, and here it

proves impregnable even against the autocracy of a Nicholas. Defeated on

the field of war, the spirit of man protests in literature. The times

call for the voice, and the voice is soon heard. This voice is the voice

of Nicolai Gogol.

3. Gogol is the protester, the merciless critic of the weakness of

autocracy. I have placed Pushkin, the greatest of Russia's singers, as

among the least of its writers, because he hath no purpose. I place

Gogol far above Pushkin, because Gogol is the first master of Russian

literature in whom purpose is not only visible, but is also shown.

Gogol's art protests not unconsciously; but the man Gogol uses the

artist Gogol as a means for giving voice to the protest against what his

noble soul rebels.

4. For, O my friends, I cannot emphasize it too strongly that our

gifts--whether they consist in wealth, or in the ability to sing, to

paint, to build, or to count--are not given unto us to be used for our

pleasure merely, or as means of our advancement, whether social or

intellectual. But they are given unto us that we may use them for

helping those who need help. Talk not therefore of art for its own sake;

that art needs no purpose, but is an end unto itself. Such talk is only

a convenient way of evading the Heaven-imposed responsibility of _using

for others_ those gifts with which a merciful power hath endowed their

undeserving possessors. Art, therefore, to be truly worthy, must have a

purpose, and, execution being equal, that art is highest, which hath the

highest purpose; that art lowest, which hath the lowest purpose.

5. But it was not given to Gogol to announce the loftiest message, the

message of peace, of love, of submission, the message of Tolstoy; the

times of Gogol were not ripe for this; the times of Gogol called for

indignation, for protest, and Gogol is the indignant protester.

6. Hitherto, whatever force has been exerted towards protesting against

the misrule of Russia by autocracy has come from the South. Stenka

Rasin, Pugatchef, came not from the North but from the South. And the

most formidable division of the Decembrist conspirators of 1825 was that

of Pestel and Muraviof, with their headquarters in the South. And even

the policy of terrorizing the autocracy by assassination, which was

adopted in our own day by the most formidable opponents of the

government, by the revolutionists miscalled Nihilists, also originated

in the South,--with Ossinsky and his comrades in Kief. Gogol, the

protester in literature, was likewise a Southerner. And it will be worth

while to cast a glance at this country and see what therein is to make

it thus a hot-bed of protest.

7. Beyond the waterfalls of the Dnieper there extends a to the eye

boundless land of prairie which for ages has been the rendezvous of all

manner of wild, lawless, but sturdy folk. Of this land Gogol himself has

given a description glowingly beautiful as only the love of a Little

Russian for the Steppe could give. Taras Bulba had just started out with

his two sons to join the camp of the Cossaks.

"Meanwhile the steppe had already received them all into its green

embrace, and the high grass surrounding them hid them, and the black

Cossaks' caps alone now gleamed between its stalks.

"'Aye, aye, fellows, what is the matter; why so quiet?' said at last

Bulba, waking up from his revery. 'One would think you were a crowd

of Tartars. Well, well, to the Evil One with your thoughts! Just

take your pipes between your teeth, and let us have a smoke, and

give our horses the spurs. Then we will fly that even a bird could

not catch us!'

"And the Cossaks, leaning over their horses, were lost in the grass.

Now even their black caps could no longer be seen; only a track of

trampled-down grass traced their swift flight.

"The sun had long been looking forth on the cleared heavens, and

poured over the whole steppe its refreshing warmth-breathing light.

Whatever was dim and sleepy in the Cossaks' souls suddenly fled;

their hearts began to beat faster, like birds'.

"The farther they went, the more beautiful the steppe grew. In those

days the vast expanse which now forms New Russia, to the very

shores of the Black Sea, was green, virgin desert. The plough had

never passed along the immeasurable waves of the wild plants. Horses

alone, whom they hid, were trampling them down. Nothing in Nature

could be more beautiful. The whole surface of the land presented a

greenish-golden ocean, on which were sparkling millions of all

manner of flowers. Through the thin high stalks of the grass were

reaching forth the light-blue, dark-blue, and lilac-colored flowers;

the yellow broom-plant jumped out above, with its pyramid-like top.

The white clover, with its parasol-shaped little caps, shone gayly

on the surface. A halm of wheat, brought hither God knows whence,

was playing the lonely dandy. By the thin roots of the grasses were

gliding the prairie-chicks, stretching out their necks. The air was

filled with a thousand different whistles of birds. In the sky

floated immovably hawks, their wings spread wide, their eyes

steadily fixed on the grass. The cry of a cloud of wild geese moving

on the side was heard on a lake, Heaven knows how far off. With

measured beating of its wings there rose from the grass a gull, and

bathed luxuriously in the blue waves of the atmosphere. Now she is

lost in the height, now she gleams as a dark point; there, she has

turned on her wings, and has sparkled in the sun!... The Devil take

ye, ye steppes, how beautiful you are!"

8. If the height of the mount, swelling as it does the breast of the

mountaineer, makes his spirit free by filling his lungs to their very

roots, how much more must the steppe liberate the spirit of man by

giving the eye an ever-fleeing circle to behold whithersoever it turn!

How much more free than the mountaineer must the son of the steppe feel,

for whom distance hath no terror, since go he never so far, he beholds

the same sky, the same horizon, the same grass, and his cheek is fanned

by the same breeze! To jump upon his faithful steed, to prick her sides

with the spur, to be off in the twinkling of an eye with the swiftness

of the wind, at the least discontent, is therefore as natural to the

Russian of the South as it is for the Russian of the North to endure

patiently in his place of birth whatever Fortune hath in store for him.

The Cossak has therefore for ages been on land what the sailor is on

sea,--light-hearted, jolly when with comrades, melancholy when alone;

but whether with his mates or alone, of a spirit indomitably free. And

Gogol was a Cossak. Southern Russia had not as yet produced a single

great voice, because Southern Russia, New Russia, had as yet no

aristocracy. Gogol is thus the only great Russian writer who sprang not

from an autocracy whitewashed with Western culture, but from the genuine

Russian people. It is this which makes Gogol the most characteristic of

Russian writers.

9. Gogol was born in the province of Poltava, in 1810. His grandfather

was an honored member of the government of the Cossak Republic, which at

that time formed almost a state within the state. It was he that

entertained his grandson with the stories of the life of the Cossaks,

their adventures, their wars, as well as with the tales of devils, of

apparitions, of which that country is full, and which form the principal

amusement of the people during their long winter evenings.

10. We shall see later that the essential characteristic of Gogol's art

was his wonderful power as a teller of a story. This came to him

directly from the grandfather through the father. But the father was

already a man of a certain degree of culture. He was fond of reading,

subscribed to the magazines, loved to entertain, and more than once had

even private theatricals at his house.

11. The boy grew up at home till he was twelve years old. But at that

age he was sent away to school at Nyezhin, with results questionable

enough. The only signs of promise he showed were a strong memory and an

honest but intense dislike of those studies which are only useful when

forgotten. The problem as to the necessity of making children familiar

with Timbuctoo, Popocatepetl, parallelopipeds, and relative dative and

absolute ablative, the boy settled for himself in clear-headed boyish

fashion. He hated mathematics, he hated the ancient languages.

Accordingly, though he stayed three years under the professor of Latin,

all he could learn was the first paragraph of a Latin Reader which

begins with the instructive sentence: Universus mundus in duas

distribuitur partes; from which circumstance poor Gogol was ever after

known among his mates under the name of Universus Mundus. Teachers and

scholars therefore scorned poor Universus Mundus; but the boy faithfully

kept a book under his desk during recitations, and read most diligently,

leaving Universus Mundus to run its own course.

12. But if the boy did not lead his fellow-pupils in familiarity with

Popocatepetl and parallelopiped, he did lead them in intellectual energy

and practical life; a voracious reader, a passionate student of

Zhukofsky and Pushkin, he founded not only a college review, which he

filled mostly with his own contributions, but also a college theatre,

which furnished entertainment not only to the boys themselves, but even

to the citizens of the town. Nor did the boy rest until he saw his

efforts towards founding a college library crowned with success.

13. This public spirit, which became in time all-absorbing to him, thus

showed itself even in his boyhood. It was not long before the purpose of

his life which hitherto manifested itself unconsciously now became the

conscious part of his existence; and when in 1828 the boy left the

Nyezhin Gymnasium, he was already filled with conscious desire to serve

God with all his soul and man with all his heart. But as the body on its

entrance into life must go through a baptism of water, so the soul on

its entrance into life must go through a baptism of fire, and the fire

to poor Gogol was scorching enough. Deeply religious towards God, nobly

enthusiastic towards men, the boy in his simplicity, innocence, and

trustfulness found himself repelled by an unsympathetic and hampered by

a misunderstanding world, which instead of encouraging the

sympathy-hungry youth, was only too ready to laugh to scorn with its

superior wisdom the dreams of the visionary. The home, the province, now

becomes too narrow for the rapidly unfolding soul. To St. Petersburg he

must go, the capital of talent, of aspiration, of hope, where are

published the magazines so eagerly devoured in the days gone by,--to the

capital, where dwell Zhukofsky and Pushkin. There his talents shall be

recognized, and an appreciating world shall receive the new-comer with

open arms. The arms of the world do indeed open on his arrival at St.

Petersburg, but it is the cold embrace of want, of friendlessness. In

St. Petersburg begins for him a struggle for existence which well-nigh

ruins him forever. Bread is not easily earned. Congenial society does

not readily seek him out, and the sympathetic appreciation his starving

soul craves is still as far as ever. Inevitable disappointment of

hero-worship also quickly comes. When he calls at the door of the

idolized Pushkin late in the morrow, he is told by the valet that the

great man is deigning to be asleep at this late hour. "Ah, your master

has been composing some heavenly song all night!" "Not at all; he has

been playing cards till seven in the morning!" And to complete his doom,

his tender susceptible heart begins to flutter with right serious ado at

the sight of a dame of high social position who hardly deigns to cast

even a glance at the moneyless, ill-clad, clumsy, rustic lad,--sorrows

enough for a soul far better equipped for battle with Fortune than this

poor Cossak lad. Total ruin is now dangerously nigh. And here Gogol

becomes high-handed. He must be off, away from this suffocation of

disappointment and despair. He must seek new fields; if Fortune is not

to be found in St. Petersburg, then it shall be sought beyond St.

Petersburg; and if not in Russia, then out of Russia. Not him shall

sportive Fortune flee; not him, the youth of merit, the youth of

promise. In the days of yore he had charmed the good folk of Nyezhin by

his acting from the stage the part of an old woman. Wherefore not

conquer Fortune as an old woman, if she favor not the young man? In a

foreign land he might yet find his goal as an actor, and he decides to

exile himself. Of moneys there are indeed none. Fortunately his mother,

now already a widow, sends him some moneys wherewith to pay off their

pledged estate. But the dutiful son keeps the moneys, advises his mother

to take in return his share of his father's estate, and departs for the

promised land. He goes to Germany, to Lubeck, to conquer Fortune as an

actor.

14. Conquer Fortune he indeed did. For in less than a month he found

himself back in St. Petersburg, now a sober, a wiser man. The period of

stress, of storm, was at an end, and henceforth letters were chosen as

his life-long occupation. Bread, indeed, has to be earned by all manner

of makeshifts,--now by serving as a scribe in some dreary government

hall, now by reading off mechanically to university students what

officially passes as lectures; but the life of his soul, whatever his

body might busy itself with, was henceforth given unto letters.

15. Henceforth, in order to make his life most fruitful unto men, which

is his constant purpose, he is to write. But write what? Gogol gazes

into his heart, and there finds the memories of the steppe, of the

valiant Cossaks, their prowess and their freedom. His soul is filled at

the sight of these with a tenderness and beauty which give him no rest

until he pours them out over the pages of his book, and "Taras Bulba" is

covered with a glory well-nigh unattained in any language since the days

of Homer. For "Taras Bulba," though only one of several stories in

"Evenings on a Farm," is among them what the star Sirius is in the

already glorious heavens of a November midnight. As a thing of beauty,

of simple grandeur, of wild strength, of heroic nobility, as a song, in

short, I do not hesitate to affirm that it finds its like only in the

Iliad. It is an epic song, and a song not of an individual soul but of a

whole nation. Written down it was indeed by the hands of Gogol, but

composed it was by the whole of Little Russia. As the whole of heroic

Greece sings in the wrath of Achilles, so the whole of Cossakdom, which

in its robust truth and manly simplicity is not unlike heroic Greece,

sings in "Taras Bulba."