SIXTH PERIOD, THE REIGN OF KATHERINE II. (1762-1796).
Under the brilliant sway of Katherine II. (1762-1796) literature and
literary men in Russia first began to acquire legitimate respect and
consideration in the highest circles--the educated minority, which ruled
tastes and fashions. Wealthy patrons of literature had existed even in
the Empress Elizabeth's day it is true; and a taste for the theater had
been implanted or engendered, partly by force, as we have seen. Western
ideas had made much progress in a normal way, through the close contact
with western European nations, brought about by Elizabeth's great
political genius, which had made St. Petersburg the diplomatic center
and law-giver; and Katherine's own interest in literature before her
accession to the throne had also had much to do with raising the
standard and the respect in which literature and writers were held, and
in preparing the ground for the new era. During her reign, life and
literature may be said to have come into close contact for the first
time. Katherine II. herself may be placed at the head of the writers of
her day, in virtue not only of her rank and her encouragement of
literature, at home and abroad, but because of her own writings. One of
her comedies, "O, Ye Times! O, Ye Manners!" is still occasionally given
on the stage. Her own Memoirs and her Correspondence with Voltaire,
Diderot, and others, furnish invaluable pictures of contemporary views
and manners. Her satires, comedies, and journalistic work and polemical
articles are most important, however, because most original. In 1769 she
began to publish a newspaper called "All Sorts of Things" (or
"Varieties"), to which she personally contributed satirical articles
attacking abuses--chiefly the lack of culture, and superficiality of
education. It was extremely popular with the public, and imitators
started up, which the Empress eventually suppressed, because of their
virulent attacks on her own journal. She ceased journalistic work in
1774, and then introduced on the stage, in her comedies, the same types
and aspects of Russian life which she had previously presented in her
satirical articles.
Of the fourteen comedies, nine operas, and seven proverbs which she
wrote, in whole or in part (she had the skeletons of some filled out
with choruses and verses according to her own plans), up to 1790, eleven
comedies, seven operas, and five proverbs have come down to us. The
comedies are not particularly artistic, but they are important in a
history of the national literature, as noteworthy efforts to present
scenes and persons drawn from contemporary life--the first of that sort
on the Russian stage--the most remarkable being the one already referred
to, and "The Gambler's Name-day" (1772). The personages whom she copied
straight from life are vivid; those whom she invented as ideals, as
foils for contrast, are lifeless shadows. Her operas are not important.
Towards the close of her literary activity she once more engaged in
journalism, writing a series of satirical sketches, "Facts and Fiction"
(published in 1783), for a new journal, issued on behalf of the Academy
of Sciences by the Princess Dáshkoff, the director of that academy, and
chairman of the Russian Academy, founded in that year on the Princess's
own plan.
This Princess Ekaterína Románovna Dáshkoff (born Vorontzóff, 1743-1810)
was a brilliantly educated woman, with a pronounced taste for political
intrigue, who had a great share in the conspiracy which disposed of
Peter III., and placed Katherine II. on the throne. Katherine richly
rewarded the Princess, but preserved her own independence and supremacy,
which offended Princess Dáshkoff, the result being a coldness between
the former intimate friends. This, in turn, obliged the Princess to
leave the court and travel at home and abroad. During one trip abroad
she received a diploma as doctor of laws, medicine, and theology from
Edinburg University. Her Memoirs are famous, though not particularly
frank, or in agreement with Katherine II.'s statements, naturally. The
Empress never ceased to be suspicious of her, but twenty years later a
truce was patched up between them, and Katherine appointed her to the
offices above mentioned--never held before or since by a woman.
Princess Dáshkoff wrote much on educational subjects, and in the journal
referred to above, she published not only her own articles and Katherine
II.'s, but also the writings of many new and talented men, among them,
Von Vízin and Derzhávin. This journal, "The Companion of the Friends of
the Russian Language," speedily came to an end when the Princess-editor
took umbrage at the ridicule heaped on some of her projects and speeches
by the Empress and her courtiers.
If Katherine II. was the first to introduce real life on the Russian
stage, Von Vízin was the first to do so in a manner sufficiently
artistic to hold the stage, which is the case with his "Nédorosl," or
"The Hobbledehoy." He is the representative of the Russian type, in its
best aspects, during the reign of Katherine II., and offers a striking
contrast to the majority of his educated fellow-countrymen of the day.
They were slavish worshipers of French influences. He bore himself
scornfully, even harshly, towards everything foreign, and always strove
to counteract each foreign thing by something of native Russian origin.
Denís Ivánovitch Von Vízin (1744-1792), as his name suggests, was the
descendant of an ancient German family, of knightly rank. An ancestor
had been taken prisoner in the reign of Iván the Terrible, and had ended
by settling in Russia and assuming Russian citizenship. The family
became thoroughly Russified when they joined the Russian Church. Von
Vízin was of a noble and independent character, to which he added a
keen, fine mind, and a caustic tongue. His father, he tells us, in his
"A Frank Confession of Deeds and Thoughts" (imitated from Rousseau's
"Confession"), was also of an independent character in general, and in
particular--contrary to the custom of the epoch--detested extortion and
bribery, and never accepted gifts. "Sir!" he was accustomed to say to
persons who asked favors of him in his official position, "a loaf of
sugar affords no reason for condemning your opponent; please take it
away and bring legal proof of your rights."
Denís Von Vízin received a thorough Russian education at home--which was
unusual at that era of overwhelming foreign influence; and his
inclination for literature having manifested itself in his early youth,
while still at the University School for Nobles, he made various
translations from foreign languages before entering the Moscow
University, at the age of fifteen. During a visit which he made to St.
Petersburg, while still a student at the University, he saw the theater
for the first time, and soon made acquaintance with F. G. Vólkhoff
(already mentioned), and one of the actors. These things exerted a great
influence upon him. During a visit of the Court to Moscow, in 1755, he
was appointed translator to the Foreign College (Office), with the
inevitable military rank, and went to live in the new capital. After
divers vicissitudes of service, he wrote "The Brigadier," which he was
promptly asked to read before royalty and in society. It won for him
great reputation with people who were capable of appreciating the first
play which was genuinely Russian in something more than externals. It
jeers at ignorance coated over with an extremely thin veneer of
pretentious foreign culture. The types in "The Brigadier" (written about
1747) had long been floating about in literature, and as it were,
awaiting a skillful pen which should present them in full relief to the
contemporary public. Von Vízin set forth these types on the stage in a
clearer, more vivid manner than all previous writers who had dealt with
them, as we have seen, in satires and dramas, from Kantemír to Katherine
II. The characters, as Von Vízin depicted them, were no longer abstract
monsters, agglomerations of evil qualities, but near relations to
everybody. Moreover, the drama was gay, playful--not even the moral was
gloomy--with not a single depressing line.
Totally different is "The Hobbledehoy" ("Nédorosl," 1782), which is even
more celebrated, and was written towards the close of a long career in
the service, filled with varied and trying experiences--part of which
arose from the difficulties of the author's own noble character in
contact with a different type of men and from his attacks on abuses of
all sorts--after a profound study of life in the middle and higher
classes of Russian court and diplomatic circles. The difference between
"The Brigadier" and "The Hobbledehoy" is so great that they must be read
in the order of their production if the full value of the impression
created by the earlier play is to be appreciated. "The Hobbledehoy" was
wholly unlike anything which had been seen hitherto in Russian
literature. Had the authorities permitted Von Vízin to print his
collection of satires, he would have stood at the head of that branch of
literature in that epoch; as it was, this fine comedy contains the
fullest expression of his dissatisfaction at the established order of
things in general. The merits of the play rest upon its queer characters
from life, who are startlingly real, and represent the genuine aims and
ideas of the time. The contrasting set of characters, whom he introduced
as the exponents of his ideals, do not express any aims and ideas which
then existed, but merely what he personally would have liked to see.
Katherine II., with whose comedies Von Vízin's have much in common,
always tried to offset her disagreeable real characters by honorable,
sensible types, also drawn from real life as ideals. But Von Vízin's
ideal characters are almost hostile in their bearing towards his
characters drawn from real life. Altogether, Von Vízin must be regarded
as the first independent, artistic writer in Russia, and therefore
epoch-making, just as Feofán Prokópovitch must be rated as the first
Russian secular writer, and Sumarókoff as the first Russian literary
man and publicist in the modern meaning of the words. It is worth noting
(because of a tendency to that sort of thing in later Russian writers
down to the present day) that towards the end of his life a stroke of
paralysis, in 1785, and other unfortunate circumstances, threw Von Vízin
into a gloomy religious state of mind, under the influence of which he
judged himself and his works with extreme severity, and condemned them
with excessive harshness.
The general outline of "The Hobbledehoy" is as follows: Mrs. Prostakóff
(Simpleton), a managing woman, of ungovernable temper, has an only
child, Mitrofán (the Hobbledehoy), aged sixteen. She regards him as a
mere child, and spoils him accordingly. He is, in fact, childish in
every way, deserving his sobriquet, and is followed about everywhere by
his old nurse, Eremyéevna. Mr. Simpleton has very little to say, and
that little, chiefly, in support of his overbearing wife's assertions,
and at her explicit demand. She habitually addresses every one, except
her son, as "beast," and by other similar epithets. She has taken into
her house, about six months before the play opens, Sophia, a fairly
wealthy orphan, and a connection of hers by marriage, whom she
ill-treats to a degree. She is on the point of betrothing her to
Skotínin (Beastly), her brother, who frankly admits that he cares
nothing for the girl, and not very much for her estate, which adjoins
his own, but a very great deal for the extremely fine pigs which are
raised on it--a passion for pigs, which he prefers to men, constituting
his chief interest in life. Mr. Beastly, who says that he never goes to
law, no matter what losses he may suffer, no matter how much his
neighbors injure him, because he simply wrings the deficit out of his
peasants, and that ends it, declares that Sophia's pigs, for which he
expresses a "deadly longing," are so huge that "there is not one of them
which, stood up on its hind legs, would not be a whole head taller than
any one of us," is eager for the match. While this is under discussion
(Sophia being entirely ignorant of their intentions), the young girl
enters, and announces that she has received good news: her uncle, who
has been in Siberia for several years in quest of fortune, and is
supposed to be dead, has written to inform her of his speedy arrival.
Mrs. Simpleton takes the view that he is dead, ought to be dead; and
roughly tells Sophia that the latter need not try to frighten her into
giving her her liberty, and asserts that the letter must be from the
officer who has been in love with her, and whom she wishes to marry.
Sophia offers her the letter, in proof of innocence, saying, "Read it
yourself." "Read it myself!" cries Mrs. Simpleton; "no, madam, thank
God, I was not brought up in that way. I may receive letters, but I
always order some one else to read them," whereupon she orders her
husband to read it. Her husband gives it up as too difficult, and Mr.
Beastly, on being asked, replies, "I! I have never read anything since I
was born, my dear sister! God has delivered me from that boredom."
Právdin (Mr. Upright), an official charged with inspecting the condition
of the peasants, also empowered to put under arrest cruel proprietors,
and under guardianship of the state those who have been ill-treated,
enters and reads the letter to them. When Mrs. Simpleton learns from it
that Uncle Starodúm (Oldidea) has a large income, and that Sophia is to
inherit it, she immediately overwhelms Sophia with flattery and
affection, and decides to marry her to her precious "child," Mitrofán.
This leads to violent quarrels during the rest of the play between her
and her brother, who wants the pigs; and to violence from the latter to
Mitrofán, who declares that he has long wished to marry, and intends to
have Sophia. In the mean time a company of soldiers, on the march to
Moscow, arrives, and is quartered in the village, while their commanding
officer, Mílon, a friend of Mr. Upright, makes his appearance at the
house, where to his surprise, he finds his lady-love, Sophia, who
promptly explains to him the situation of affairs.
Mitrofán is still under teachers, consisting of Vrálman (Liar), a former
gunner, who is supposed to be teaching him French and all the sciences;
Tzýfirkin (Cipherer), a retired army-sergeant, who instructs him in
arithmetic, and Kutéikin, who, as his name implies, is the son of a
petty ecclesiastic, and teaches him reading and writing, talking always
in ecclesiastical style, interlarded with old Church-Slavonic words and
phrases. He is always doing "reviews," never advancing to new lessons,
and threatens to drown himself if he be not allowed to wed Sophia at
once. There is a most amusing lesson-scene. The teacher of arithmetic
sets him a problem: three people walking along the road find three
hundred rubles, which they divide equally between them; how much does
each one get? Mitrofán does the sum on his slate: "Once three is three,
once nothing is nothing, once nothing is nothing." But his mother
exclaims, that if he finds such a sum, he must not divide it, but keep
it all, and that arithmetic, which teaches such division, is a fool of a
science. Another sum is worked out in equally absurd style, with equally
intelligent comments from the mother. Kutéikin then takes his turn, and
using a pointer, makes Mitrofán repeat after him a ridiculously
appropriate sentence from the Psalms, in the "Tchasoslóff," the "Book of
Hours," or first reader. Vrálman enters, meddles with everybody, in a
strong foreign accent, and puts an end to the lessons, as quite
unnecessary for the precious boy; for which, and his arrogance (when
Mrs. Simpleton and the Hobbledehoy have retired), the other teachers
attack him with slate and book.
Meanwhile, Uncle Starodúm has arrived, and talks in long paragraphs and
stilted language to Právdin and Sophia, expressing the ideal view of
life, conduct, service to the state, and so forth. He, as well as
Sophia, Právdin Mílon, are quite colorless. The Simpletons overwhelm
Starodúm with stupid courtesies, and Mrs. S. gets Právdin to examine
Mitrofán, in order to prove to Starodúm that her darling child is fit to
be Sophia's husband. The examination is even more brilliant than the
lesson. Mitrofán says that door, that is to say, the door to that room,
is an adjective, because it is added, or affixed, to its place; but the
door of the store-house is a noun, because it has been standing off its
hinges for six weeks. Further examination reveals the fact, that
Vrálman's instruction in history has impressed his pupil with the idea
that the histories (stories) told by Khavrónya, the herd-girl,
constitute that science. When asked about geography, the Hobbledehoy
declares that he does not know what is meant, and his mother prompts him
with "'Eography," after asking Právdin what he said. On inquiring
further as to its meaning and its use, and on being informed that it is
a description of the earth, and its first use is to aid people in
finding their way about, she makes the famous speech, frequently quoted,
"Akh, good gracious! What are the cabmen for, then? That's their
business. That's not a science for the nobility. All a noble has to do
is to say, 'Drive me to such a place!' and you're driven whithersoever
you wish. Believe me, my good sir, everything that Mitrofán does not
know is nonsense."
Uncle Starodúm makes acquaintance with Mílon, whose good qualities he
has learned through an old friend, and betroths him to Sophia. Mrs.
Simpleton, on learning of this, and that Starodúm and Sophia are to set
out for Moscow early the next morning, arranges to have Mitrofán abduct
Sophia at a still earlier hour, and marry her. Sophia escapes; Mrs.
Simpleton raves and threatens to beat to death her servants who have
failed to carry out her plan. Právdin then announces that the government
has ordered him to take charge of the Simpletons' house and villages,
because of Mrs. S.'s notorious inhumanity. Vrálman, whom Starodúm
recognizes as a former coach-man of his, mounts the box, and Starodúm,
Sophia, and Mílon set out for Moscow, virtue reigning triumphant, and
wickedness being properly punished--which, again, is an ideal point of
view.
But the man who, taken as a whole, above all others in the eighteenth
century, has depicted for us governmental, social, and private life, is
Gavríl Románovitch Derzhávin (1743-1816). His memoirs and poetical
chronicle furnish the most brilliant, vivid, and valuable picture of the
reign of Katherine II. Moreover, in his own person, Derzhávin offers a
type of one of the most distinguished Russians of the last half of the
eighteenth century, in his literary and official career. He presented a
great contrast to his contemporary and friend, Von Vízin, in that, while
the latter was a noteworthy example of all the best sides in
contemporary social life, with very few defects, Derzhávin was an
example of all the defects of contemporary life, and of several
distinctly personal merits, which sharply differentiated him from others
in the same elevated spheres of court and official life. He was the son
of a poor noble. His opportunities for education were extremely limited,
and in 1762 he entered the military service as a common soldier, in the
famous Preobrazhénsky (Transfiguration) infantry regiment of the Guards.
As he had neither friends nor relatives in St. Petersburg, he lived in
barracks, where with difficulty he followed his inclinations, and read
all the Russian and German books he could obtain, scribbling verses at
intervals. In 1777 he managed to obtain a small estate and the rank of
bombardier-lieutenant, and left the service to become an usher in one
department of the Senate, where he made many friends and acquaintances
in high circles. Eventually he became governor of Olónetz, then of
Tambóff. In 1779 he began "in a new style," among other compositions
therein being an ode "To Felitza," meaning the Empress Katherine II. He
continued to write verses, but published nothing under his own name
until his famous ode, "God" and "The Murza's Vision," in 1785. We cannot
here enter into his official career further than to say, that all his
troubles arose from his own honesty, and from the combined hostile
efforts of the persons whose dishonest practices he had opposed. Towards
the end of Katherine's reign he became a privy councilor (a titular
rank) and senator; that is to say, a member of the Supreme Judicial
Court. Under Paul I. he was President of the Commerce College (Ministry
of Commerce), and Imperial Treasurer. Under Alexander I. he was made
Minister of Justice.
"Katharine's Bard," as he was called, like several of his predecessors,
cherished an idea of fixing a style in Russian literature, his special
aim being to confine it to the classical style, and to oppose the new
school of Karamzín. In this he was upheld by I. I. Dmítrieff, who was
looked upon as his successor. But after Derzhávin heard Púshkin read his
verses, at the examination in the Tzárskoe Seló Lyceum (1815), he
frankly admitted that the lad had already excelled all living writers of
Russia; and he predicted that this school-boy would become the new and
brilliant star.
Despite the burdens of his official life, Derzhávin wrote a great deal;
towards the end of his life, much dramatic matter; yet he really belongs
to the ranks of the lyric poets. He deserved all the fame he enjoyed,
because he was the first poet who was so by inspiration, not merely by
profession or ambition. Even in his most insignificant works of the
stereotyped sort, with much sound and very little thought and feeling,
the hand of a master is visible, and talent is perceptible; while many
passages are remarkable for their poetic figures, melody of
versification, and beauty and force of expression. No poet previous to
Púshkin can be compared to him for talent, and for direct, independent
inspiration. His poetry is chiefly the poetry of figures and events, of
solemn, loudly trumpeted victories and feats, descriptions of banquets,
festivals, noisy social life, and endless hymns of praise to the age of
Katherine II. It is not very rich in inward contents or in ideas. But he
possessed one surpassing merit: he, first of all among Russian poets,
brought poetry down from its lofty, classical flights to the every-day
life of his fatherland at that age, and to nature, and freed Russian
poetry from that monotonous, stilted, tiresome, official form which had
been introduced by Lomonósoff and copied by all the latter's followers.
Derzhávin's language is powerful, picturesque, and expressive, but still
harsh and uneven, the ordinary vernacular being mingled with
Church-Slavonic, and frequently obscuring the meaning; also, and owing
to his deficient education, he often had recourse to inelegant,
tasteless forms. If we compare him with Lomonósoff and Sumarókoff, it is
evident that Russian poetry had made a great stride in advance under
him, both as to external and internal development, in that he not only
brought it nearer to life, but also perfected its forms, to a
considerable degree, and applied it to subjects to which his
predecessors would never have dreamed of applying it. His famous ode
"God" will best serve to illustrate his style:
GOD[5]
O Thou eternal One! whose presence bright
All space doth occupy, all motion guide;
Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight;
Thou only God! There is no God beside!
Being above all beings! Three in One!
Whom none can comprehend and none explore;
Who fill'st existence with _thyself_ alone:
Embracing all,--supporting,--ruling o'er,--
Being whom we call GOD--and know no more!
In its sublime research, philosophy
May measure out the ocean deep, may count
The sands or the sun's rays--but God! for Thee
There is no weight nor measure:--none can mount
Up to Thy mysteries; Reason's brightest spark,
Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark:
And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high,
Even like past moments in eternity.
Thou from primeval nothingness didst call,
First chaos, then existence. Lord! on Thee
Eternity had its foundation; all
Sprung forth from Thee:--of light, joy, harmony,
Sole origin:--all life, all beauty Thine.
Thy word created all, and doth create;
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine.
Thou wert, and art, and shalt be! Glorious! Great!
Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!
Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround:
Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath!
Thou the beginning with the end has bound,
And beautifully mingled life and death!
As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze,
So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee;
And as the spangles in the sunny rays
Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry
Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise.
A million torches lighted by Thy hand
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss:
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command;
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light--
A glorious company of golden streams--
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright--
Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams?
But Thou to these art as the noon to night.
Yes, as a drop of water in the sea,
All this magnificence in Thee is lost:--
What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee?
And what am _I_ then? Heaven's unnumber'd host,
Though multiplied by myriads, and array'd
in all the glory of sublimest thought;
Is but an atom in the balance weighed
Against Thy greatness; is a cypher brought
Against infinity! What am I, then? Naught!
Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine,
Pervading worlds, hath reach'd my bosom, too;
Yes! In my spirit doth Thy spirit shine
As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.
Naught! But I live, and on hope's pinions fly
Eager towards Thy presence; for in Thee
I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high,
Even to the throne of Thy divinity.
I am, O God! and surely _Thou_ must be!
Thou art! directing, guiding all, Thou art!
Direct my understanding then to Thee:
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart:
Though but an atom midst immensity,
Still I am something fashioned by Thy hand!
I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth,
On the last verge of mortal being stand,
Close to the realms where angels have their birth,
Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land!
The chain of being is complete in me:
In me is matter's last gradation lost,
And the next step is spirit--Deity!
I can command the lightning, and am dust!
A monarch, and a slave; a worm, a god!
Whence came I here, and how? so marvelously
Constructed and conceived? Unknown! This clod
Lives merely through some higher energy;
For from itself alone it could not be!
Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and thy word
Created me! Thou source of light and good!
Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord!
Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude
Fill'd me with an immortal soul, to spring
O'er the abyss of death, and bade it wear
The garments of eternal day, and wing
Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere,
Even to its source--to Thee--its author there.
O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest!
Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee,
Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast,
And waft its homage to Thy Deity.
God! Thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar;
Thus seek Thy presence--Being wise and good!
Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore;
And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.
But the literary activity of Katherine II.'s reign was not confined to
its two most brilliant representatives--Von Vízin and Derzhávin; many
less prominent writers, belonging to different parties and branches of
literature, were diligently at work. Naturally, there was as yet too
little independent Russian literature to permit of the existence of
criticism, or the establishment of a fixed standard of taste.
Among the worthy writers of the second class in that brilliant era, were
Kheraskóff, Bogdanóvitch, Khémnitzer, and Kápnist.
Mikháil Matvyéevitch Kheraskóff (1733-1801), the author of the epic "The
Rossiad," and of other less noteworthy works, was known during his
lifetime only to the very restricted circle of his friends. In his
convictions and views on literature he belonged to the epoch of
Lomonósoff and Sumarókoff; by birth and education to the highest
nobility. More faithfully than any other writer of his century does
Kheraskóff represent the pseudo-classical style in Russian epic, lyric,
and dramatic poetry, for he wrote all sorts of things, including
sentimental novels. To the classical enthusiasts of his day he seemed
the "Russian Homer," and his long poems, "The Rossiad" (1789) and
"Vladímir" (1786), were confidently believed to be immortal, being the
first tolerable specimens of the epic style in Russian literature. In
twelve long cantos he celebrates the capture of Kazán by Iván the
Terrible in "The Rossiad." "Vladímir" (eighteen cantos) celebrates the
Christianizing of Russia by Prince-Saint Vladímir.
Ippolít Feódorovitch Bogdanóvitch (1743-1803), who was developed under
the immediate supervision and patronage of Kheraskóff, belonged, by
education and his comprehension of elegance and of poetry, to a later
epoch--on the borderland between pseudo-classicism and the succeeding
period, which was ruled by sentimentalism. His well-known poem,
"Dúshenka" ("Dear Little Soul"), was the first light epic Russian poem,
with simple, intelligible language, and with a jesting treatment of a
gay, playful subject. This subject Bogdanóvitch borrowed from La
Fontaine's novel, "The Loves of Psyche and Cupid," which, in turn, was
borrowed from Apuleius.
The third writer of this group, Iván Ivánovitch Khémnitzer (1745-1784),
the son of a German physician, was unknown during his lifetime; enjoyed
no literary fame, and cared for none, regarding his capacities and
productions as unworthy of notice. In 1779, at the instigation of his
friends, he published a collection of his "Fables and Tales." At this
time there existed not a single tolerable specimen of the fable in
Russian; but by the time literary criticism did justice to Khémnitzer's
work, Karamzín, and Dmítrieff had become the favorites of the public,
and Khémnitzer's productions circulated chiefly among the lower classes,
for whom his Fables are still published. His works certainly aided
Dmítrieff and Krylóff in handling this new branch of poetical literature
in Russia. His "The Metaphysician" still remains one of the greatest
favorites among Russian fables for cultivated readers of all classes.
Briefly told, the contents of "The Metaphysician" are as follows: A
father, who had heard that children were sent beyond sea to be educated,
and that those so reared were more respected than those brought up at
home, determined, being wealthy, to send his son thither. The son,
despite his studies, from being stupid when he went, returned more
stupid than before, having fallen into the clutches of educational
quacks, of whom there is no lack. Aforetime, he had babbled stupidities
simply, but now he began to expound such things in learned wise;
aforetime, only the stupid had failed to understand him, now he was
beyond the comprehension of the wise. The whole house, and town, and
world were bored to death with his chatter. He was possessed with a
mania for searching out the cause of everything. With his wits thus
woolgathering as he walked, he one day suddenly tumbled into a pit. His
father, who chanced to be with him, rushed off to get a rope, wherewith
to drag out "his household wisdom." Meanwhile, his thoughtful child, as
he sat in the pit, reasoned with himself as to what might be the cause
of his fall, and came to the conclusion that it was an earthquake; also,
that his sudden flight into the pit might create an atmospheric
pressure, from the earth and the pit, which would wipe out the seven
planets. The father rushed up with a rope. "Here's a rope for you," says
he, "catch hold of it. I'll drag you out; look out that you don't fall
off!" "No, wait; don't pull me out yet; tell me first, what sort of a
thing is a rope?" "Although the father was not learned, he was gifted by
nature with common sense," winds up the fable.
Another, called "The Skinflint," runs thus:
"There was once a Skinflint, who had a vast amount of money.
And, as he was wont to say, he had grown rich,
Not by crooked deeds. Not by stealing or ruining men.
No, he took his oath to that: That God had sent all this wealth to
his house,
And that he feared not, in the least, to be convicted of injustice
towards his neighbor.
And to please the Lord for this, His mercy,
And to incline Him unto favors in time to come--
Or, possibly, just to soothe his conscience--
The Skinflint took it into his head to build a house for the poor.
The house was built, and almost finished. My Skinflint, gazing at it,
Beside himself with joy, cheers up and reasons with himself.
How great a service he to the poor hath rendered, in ordering a refuge
to be built for them!
Thus was my Skinflint inwardly exulting over his house.
Then one of his acquaintances chanced along.
The Skinflint said, with rapture, to his friend,
'I think a great lot of the poor can be housed here!'
'Of course, a great many can live here;
But you cannot get in all whom you've sent wandering homeless o'er
the earth!'"
One of Khémnitzer's most intimate friends, and also one of the most
notable members of Derzhávin's circle (being related to the latter
through his wife), was Vasíly Vasílievitch Kápnist (1757-1824), whose
ancestors had been members of an Italian family, the Counts Capnissi. He
owed his fame chiefly to his ode on "Slavery" (1783); to another, "On
the Extirpation in Russia of the Vocation of Slave by the Empress
Katherine II." (1786); and to a whole series celebrating the conquests
of the Russian arms in Turkey and Italy. But far more important are his
elegies and short lyrics, many of which are really very light and
graceful; and his translations of "The Monument," from Horace, which was
quite equal to Derzhávin's, or even Púshkin's. His masterpiece was the
comedy "Yábeda" (Calumny), which was written probably at the end of
Katherine's reign, and was printed under Paul I., in 1798. It contains a
sharp condemnation of the morals in the provincial courts of justice,
and of the incredible processes of chicanery and bribery through which
every business matter was forced to pass. The types which Kápnist put on
the stage, especially the pettifogger Právoloff, and the types of the
presiding judge and members of the bench, were very accurately drawn,
and can hardly fail to have been taken from life. Alarmed by the
numerous persecutions of literary men which took place during the last
years of Katherine II.'s reign, Kápnist dared not publish his comedy
until the accession of the Emperor Paul I., when he dedicated it to the
Emperor, and set forth in a poetical preface the entire harmlessness of
his satire. But even this precaution was of no avail. The comedy created
a tremendous uproar and outcry from officialdom in general; the Emperor
was petitioned to prohibit the piece, and to administer severe
punishment to the "unpatriotic" author. The Emperor is said to have
taken the petition in good faith and to have ordered that Kápnist be
dispatched forthwith to Siberia. But after dinner his wrath cooled (the
petitioners had even declared that the comedy flagrantly jeered at the
monarchical power), and he began to doubt the justice of his command. He
ordered the piece to be played that very evening in the Hermitage
Theater (in the Winter Palace). Only he and the Grand Duke Alexander
(afterwards Alexander I.), were present at the performance. After the
first act the Emperor, who had applauded incessantly, sent the first
state courier he could put his hand on to bring Kápnist back on the
instant. He richly rewarded the author on the latter's return, and
showed him favor until he died. Another amusing testimony to the
lifelikeness of Kápnist's types is narrated by an eye-witness. "I
happened," says this witness, "in my early youth, to be present at a
representation of 'Calumny' in a provincial capital; and when Khvatáïko
(Grabber), sang,
'Take, there's no great art in that;
Take whatever you can get;
What are hands appended to us for
If not that we may take, take, take?'
all the spectators began to applaud, and many of them, addressing the
official who occupied the post corresponding to that of Grabber,
shouted his name in unison, and cried, 'That's you! That's you!'"
Towards the end of Katherine II.'s reign, a new school, which numbered
many young writers, arose. At the head of it, by reason of his ability
as a journalist, literary man, poet, and savant, stood Nikolái
Mikháilovitch Karamzín (1766-1826). Karamzín was descended from a Tatár
princeling, Karamurza, who accepted Christianity in the days of the
Tzars of Moscow. He did much to disseminate in society a discriminating
taste in literature, and more accurate views in regard to it. During the
first half of his sixty years' activity--that under Katherine II.--he
was a poet and literary man; during the latter and most considerable
part of his career--under Alexander I.--he was a historian. His first
work to win him great renown was his "Letters of a Russian Traveler,"
written after a trip lasting a year and a half to Germany, Switzerland,
France, and England, begun in 1789, and published in the "Moscow
Journal," which he established in 1791. For the next twelve years
Karamzín devoted himself exclusively to journalism and literature. It
was his most brilliant literary period, and during it his labors were
astonishing in quantity and varied in subject, as the taste of the
majority of readers in that period demanded. During this period he was
not only a journalist, but also a poet, literary man, and critic. His
poetical compositions are rather shallow, and monotonous in form, but
were highly esteemed by his contemporaries. They are interesting at the
present day chiefly because of their historical and biographical
details, as a chronicle of history, and of the heart of a profoundly
sincere man. Their themes are, generally, the love of nature, of country
life, friendship; together with gentleness, sensibility, melancholy,
scorn for rank and wealth, dreams of immortality with posterity. His
greatest successes with the public were secured by "Poor Liza," and
"Natálya, the Boyár's Daughter," which served as much-admired models for
sentimentalism to succeeding generations. Sentimentality was no novelty
in Russia; it had come in with translations from English novels, such as
Richardson's "Clarissa Harlowe," and the like; and imitations of them in
Russia. "Sensibility" was held to be the highest quality in human
nature, and a man's--much more a woman's--worth was measured by the
amount of "sensibility" he or she possessed. This new school paid scant
heed to the observation and study of real life. An essential tenet in
the cult consisted of a glorification of the distant past, "the good old
times," adorned by fancy, as the ideal model for the present; the
worship of the poor but honest country folk, the ideal of equality,
freedom, happiness, and nearness to nature.
Of this style, Karamzín's "Poor Liza" is the most perfect and admired
specimen. Liza, a poor country lass, is "beautiful in body and soul,"
supremely gifted with tenderness and sensibility. Erást, a wealthy
noble, possessed of exceptional brains and a kind heart, but weak and
trifling by nature, falls in love with her. He begins to dream of the
idyllic past, "in which people strolled, care-free, through the meadows,
bathed in crystal clear pools, kissed like turtle-doves, reposed amid
roses and myrtle, and passed their days in happy idleness." So he feels
himself summoned to the embrace of nature, and determines to abandon the
high society, for a while at least. He even goes so far as to assure
Liza that it is possible for him to marry her, despite the immense
difference in their social stations; that "an innocent soul, gifted with
sensibility, is the most important thing of all, and Liza will ever be
the nearest of all persons to his heart." But he betrays her,
involuntarily. When she becomes convinced of his treachery, she throws
herself into a pond hard by, beneath the ancient oaks which but a short
time before had witnessed their joys.
"Natálya, the Boyár's Daughter," is a glorification of a fanciful past,
far removed from reality, in which "Russians were Russians"; and against
this background, Karamzín sets a tale, even simpler and more innocent,
of the love of Natálya and Alexéi, with whom Natálya falls in love, "in
one minute, on beholding him for the first time, and without ever having
heard a single word about him." These stories, and Karamzín's "Letters
of a Russian Traveler," already referred to, had an astonishing success;
people even learned them by heart, and the heroes of them became the
favorite ideals of the young; while the pool where Liza was represented
as having drowned herself (near the Simónoff Monastery, in the suburbs
of Moscow) became the goal for the rambles of those who were also
"gifted with sensibility." The appearance of these tales is said to have
greatly increased the taste for reading in society, especially among
women.
Although Karamzín did not possess the gift of artistic creation, and
although the imaginative quality is very deficient in his works, his
writings pleased people as the first successful attempts at light
literature. In his assumption that people should write as they talked,
Karamzín entirely departed from Lomonósoff's canons as to the three
styles permissible, and thereby imparted the final impulse to the
separation of the Russian literary language from the bookish,
Church-Slavonic diction. His services in the reformation and improvement
of the Russian literary language were very important, despite the
violent opposition he encountered from the old conservative literary
party.[6]
When Alexander I. ascended the throne, in 1801, Karamzín turned his
attention to history. In 1802 he founded the "European Messenger" (which
is still the leading monthly magazine of Russia), and began to publish
in it historical articles which were, in effect, preparatory to his
extended and famous "History of the Russian Empire," published in 1818,
fine in style, but not accurate, in the modern sense of historical work.
Karamzín's nearest followers, the representatives of the sentimental
tendency in literature, and of the writers who laid the foundations for
the new literary language and style, were Dmítrieff and Ózeroff.
Iván Ivánovitch Dmítrieff (1760-1810), and Vladisláff Alexándrovitch
Ózeroff (1769-1816), both enjoyed great fame in their day. Dmítrieff,
while under the guidance of Karamzín, making sentimentalism the ruling
feature in Russian epic and lyric poetry, perfected both the general
style of Russian verse, and the material of the light, poetical
language. Ózeroff, under the same influence and tendency, aided in the
final banishment from the Russian stage of pseudo-classical ideals and
dramatic compositions constructed according to theoretical rules.
Dmítrieff's most prominent literary work was a translation of La
Fontaine's Fables, and some satirical writings. Ózeroff, in 1798, put on
the stage his first, and not entirely successful, tragedy, "Yáropolk and
Olég."[7] His most important work, both from the literary and the
historical points of view--although not so regarded by his
contemporaries--was his drama "Fingal," founded on Ossian's Songs, and
is a triumph of northern poetry and of the Russian tongue, rich in
picturesqueness, daring, and melody. His contemporaries regarded "Dmítry
Donskóy" as his masterpiece, although in reality it is one of the least
noteworthy of his compositions, and it enjoyed a brilliant success.
But the most extreme and talented disciples of the Karamzín school were
Vasíly Andréevitch Zhukóvsky (1783-1852) and Konstantín Nikoláevitch
Bátiushkoff (1786-1855), who offer perfectly clear examples of the
transition from the sentimental to the new romantic school, which began
with Púshkin. Everything of Zhukóvsky's that was original, that is to
say, not translated, was an imitation, either of the solemn, bombastic
productions of the preceding poets of the rhetorical school, or of the
tender, dreamy, melancholy works of the sentimental school, until he
devoted himself to translations from the romantic German and English
schools. He was not successful in his attempts to create original
Russian work in the romantic vein; and his chief services to Russian
literature (despite the great figure he played in it during his day)
must be regarded as having consisted in giving romanticism a chance to
establish itself firmly on Russian soil; and in having, by his splendid
translations, among them Schiller's "Maid of Orleans," Byron's "The
Prisoner of Chillon," and de la Mott Fouqué's "Undine," brought Russian
literature into close relations with a whole mass of literary models,
enlarged the sphere of literary criticism, and definitively deprived
pseudo-classical theories and models of all force and influence.
Zhukóvsky's own history and career were romantic. He was the son of a
wealthy landed proprietor named Búnin, who already had eleven children;
when his peasants, on setting out for Rumyántzoff's army as sutlers,
asked their owner, "What shall we bring thee from the Turkish land,
little father?" Búnin replied, in jest, "Bring me a couple of pretty
Turkish lasses; you see my wife is growing old." The peasants took him
at his word, and brought two young Turkish girls, who had been captured
at the siege of Bender. The elder, Salkha, aged sixteen, first served as
nurse to Búnin's daughters. In 1783, shortly after seven of his children
had died within a short time of each other, she bore him a son, who was
adopted by one of his friends, a member of the petty nobility, Búnin's
daughter standing as godmother to the child, and his wife receiving it
into the family, and rearing it like a son, in memory of her dead, only
son. This baby was the future poet Zhukóvsky. When Búnin died, he
bequeathed money to the child, and his widow and daughters gave him the
best of educations. Zhukóvsky began to print bits of melancholy poetry
while he was still at the university preparatory school. When he became
closely acquainted with Karamzín (1803-1804), he came under the latter's
influence so strongly that the stamp remained upon all the productions
of the first half of his career, the favorite "Svyetlána" (Amaryllis),
written in 1811, being a specimen. In 1812 Zhukóvsky served in the army,
and wrote his poem "The Bard in the Camp of the Russian Warriors,"[8]
which brought him more fame than all his previous work, being adapted to
the spirit of the time, and followed it up with other effusions, which
made much more impression on his contemporaries than they have on later
readers. But even in his most brilliant period, the great defect of
Zhukóvsky's poetry was a total lack of coloring or close connection with
the Russian soil, which he did not understand, and did not particularly
love. His poetical "Epistle to Alexander I. after the Capture of Paris,
in 1824," he sent in manuscript to the Emperor's mother, the Empress
Márya Feódorovna. The result was, that the Empress ordered it printed in
luxurious style, at government expense, had him presented to her, and
made him her reader. He was regarded as a great poet, became a close
friend of the imperial family, tutor to the Grand Duchess Alexándra
Feódorovna (wife of Nikolái Pávlovitch, afterwards the Emperor Nicholas
I.), and his fortune was assured. His career during the last twenty-five
years of his life, beginning with 1817, belongs to history rather than
to literature. In 1853, wealthy, loaded with imperial favors, richly
pensioned, he went abroad, and settled in Baden-Baden, where he married
(being at the time sixty years of age, while his bride was nineteen),
and never returned to Russia. During the last eleven years of his
semi-invalid life, with disordered nerves, he approached very close to
mysticism.[9]
Bátiushkoff, as a poet, was the exact opposite of Zhukóvsky, being the
first to grasp the real significance of the mood of the ancient
classical poets, and to appropriate not only their views on life and
enjoyment, but even their plastic and thoroughly artistic mode of
expression. While Zhukóvsky removed poetry from earth and rendered it
ethereal, Bátiushkoff fixed it to earth and gave it a body,
demonstrating all the entrancing charm of tangible reality. Yet, in
language, point of view, and literary affiliations, he belongs, like
Zhukóvsky, to the school of Karamzín. But his versification, his
subject-matter are entirely independent of all preceding influences. In
beauty of versification and plastic worth, Bátiushkoff had no
predecessors in Russian literature, and no competitors in the school of
Karamzín. He was of ancient, noble family, well educated, and began to
publish at the age of eighteen.
We now come, chronologically, to a writer who cannot be assigned either
to the old sentimental school of Karamzín, or to the new romantic school
of which Púshkin was the first and greatest exponent in Russian
literature; to a man who stood apart, in a lofty place, all his own,
both during his lifetime and in all Russian literary history; whose name
is known to every Russian who can read and write, and whose work enjoys
in Russia that popularity which the Odyssey did among the ancient
Greeks. Iván Andréevitch Krylóff (1763-1844) began his literary work
almost simultaneously with Karamzín, but was not, in the slightest
degree, influenced by the style which the latter introduced into Russian
literature; and bore himself in no less distant and hostile a manner to
the rising romantic school of Púshkin. He was the son of an army
officer, who was afterwards in the civil service, a very competent,
intelligent man, who left his family in dire poverty at his death. At
the age of fifteen, Krylóff produced his first, and very creditable,
specimen of his future talent, though obliged, by extreme need, to enter
government service at the age of fourteen, at his father's death. He
filled several positions in different places at a very meager salary,
until the death of his mother (1788), when he resigned and determined to
devote himself exclusively to literature. He engaged in journalistic
work, became an editor, and soon published a paper of his own. But his
real sphere was that of fabulist. In 1803 he offered his first three
fables, partly translated, partly worked over from La Fontaine, and from
the moment of their publication, his fame as a writer of fables began to
grow. But he wrote two comedies and a fairy-opera before, in 1808, he
finally devoted himself to fables, to which branch of literature he
remained faithful as long as he lived. By 1811-1812 his fables were so
popular that he was granted a government pension, and became a member of
the Empress Márya Feódorovna's circle of court poets and literary men.
From 1812-1840, or later, Krylóff had an easy post in the Imperial
Public Library, and in the course of forty years, wrote about two
hundred fables. He is known to have been extremely indolent and untidy;
but all his admirers, and even his enemies, recognized in him a power
which not one of his predecessors in the literary sphere had
possessed--a power which was thoroughly national, bound in the closest
manner to the Russian soil. His fables bear an almost family likeness to
the proverbs, aphorisms, adages, and tales produced by the wisdom of the
masses, and are quite in their spirit. All the Russian poets had tried
their hand at that favorite form of poetic composition--the fable--ever
since its introduction from western Europe, in the eighteenth century;
and Krylóff's success called forth innumerable imitators. But up to that
time, out of all the sorts of poetry existing in Russian literature,
only the fable, thanks to Krylóff, had become, in full measure, the
organ of nationality, both in spirit and in language; and these two
qualities his fables possess in the most profound, national meaning of
the term. His language is peculiar to himself. He was the first who
dared to speak to Russian society, enervated by the harmonious, regular
prose of Karamzín, in the rather rough vernacular of the masses, which
was, nevertheless, energetic, powerful, and contained no foreign
admixture, or any exclusively bookish elements. One of the most popular
of his fables, to which allusion is often made in Russian literature and
conversation, is "Demyán's Fish-Soup." The manner in which the lines are
rhymed in the original is indicated by corresponding figures.
DEMYÁN'S FISH-SOUP
"Neighbor, dear, my light! (1)
Eat, I pray thee." (2)
"Neighbor, dear, I'm full to the throat,"--"No matter. (1)
Another little plateful; hearken: (2)
This fish soup, I assure you, is gloriously cooked." (3)
"Three platefuls have I eaten."--"O, stop that, why keep count, (4)
If only you feel like it, (4)
Why, eat and health be yours: eat to the bottom! (3)
What fish-soup! and how rich in fat (3)
As though with amber covered. (3)
Enjoy yourself, dear friend! (5)
Here's tender bream, pluck, a bit of sterlet here!
Just another little spoonful!
Come, urge him, wife!"
In this wise did neighbor Demyán neighbor Fóka entertain.
And let him neither breathe nor rest;
But sweat from Fóka long had poured in streams.
Yet still another plateful doth he take,
Collects his final strength--and cleans up everything.
"Now, that's the sort of friend I like!"
Demyán did shout: "But I can't bear the stuck-up; come, eat another
plateful, my dear fellow!"
Thereupon, my poor Fóka,
Much as he loved fish-soup, yet from such a fate,
In his arms seizing his girdle and his cap--
Rushed madly, quickly home,
And since that day, hath never more set foot in Demyán's house.
Writer, thou art lucky if the real gift thou hast,
But if thou dost not know enough to hold thy peace in time,
And dost not spare thy neighbor's ears,
Then must thou know, that both thy prose and verse,
To all will prove more loathsome than Demyán's fish-soup.
Another good specimen is called:
THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB
When partners cannot agree, their affair will not work smoothly,
And torment, not business, will be the outcome.
Once on a time, the Swan, the Crab, and the Pike,
Did undertake to haul a loaded cart,
And all three hitched themselves thereto;
They strained their every nerve, but still the cart budged not.
And yet, the load seemed very light for them;
But towards the clouds the Swan did soar,
Backwards the Crab did march,
While the Pike made for the stream.
Which of them was wrong, which right, 'tis not our place to judge.
Only, the cart doth stand there still.
We have seen that Lomonósoff began the task of rendering the modern
Russian language adaptable to all the needs of prose and verse; and that
the writers who followed him, notably Karamzín, contributed their share
to this great undertaking. Púshkin practically completed it and molded
the hitherto somewhat harsh and awkward forms into an exquisite medium
for every requirement of literature. Alexánder Sergyéevitch Púshkin
(1799-1837), still holds the undisputed leadership for simplicity,
realism, absolute fidelity to life, and he was the first worthy
forerunner of the great men whose names are world-synonyms at the
present day for those qualities. Almost every writer who preceded him
had been more or less devoted to translations and servile copies of
foreign literature. Against these, and the mock-classicism of the French
pattern, which then ruled Europe, he waged relentless battle. He
vitalized Russian literature by establishing its foundations firmly on
Russian soil; by employing her native traditions, life, and sentiment as
subjects and inspiration, in place of the worn-out conventionalities of
foreign invention. The result is a product of the loftiest truth, as
well as of the loftiest art.
His ancestors were nobles who occupied important posts under Peter the
Great. His mother was a granddaughter of Hannibal, the negro of whom
Púshkin wrote under the title of "Peter the Great's Arab." This Hannibal
was a slave who had been brought from Africa to Constantinople, where
the Russian ambassador purchased him, and sent him to Peter the Great.
The latter took a great fancy to him, had him baptized, and would not
allow his brothers to ransom him, but sent him, at the age of eighteen,
abroad to be educated. On his return, Peter kept his favorite always
beside him. Under the reign of the Empress Anna Ioánnovna he was exiled
to Siberia, in company with other court favorites of former reigns; and
like them, returned to Russia, and was loaded with favors by Peter's
daughter, the Empress Elizabeth. His son was a distinguished general of
Katherine II.'s day. Púshkin, the poet, had blue eyes, and very fair
skin and hair, but the whole cast of his countenance in his portraits is
negro. His father was a typical society man, and in accordance with the
fashion of the day, Púshkin was educated exclusively by French tutors at
home, and his first writings (at the age of ten) were in French, and
imitated from writers of that nation. When his father retired from the
military service, he settled in Moscow, and the boy knew all the
literary men of that day and town before he was twelve years of age, and
there can be no doubt that this literary atmosphere had a great
influence upon him. When, at the age of twelve, he was placed in the
newly founded Lyceum,[10] at Tzárskoe Seló (sixteen miles from St.
Petersburg), whence so many famous men were afterwards graduated, he and
the other pupils amused themselves in their play hours by writing a
little newspaper, and by other literary pursuits. Here the lad was
compelled to learn Russian, and the first use he made of it was to write
caustic epigrams. At the school examination in 1815, the aged poet
Derzhávin was among the visitors; and when he heard the boy read his
"Memories of Tzárskoe Seló," he at once predicted his coming greatness.
As is natural at his age, there was not much originality of idea in the
poem; but it was amazing for its facility and mastery of poetic forms.
Karamzín and Zhukóvsky were not long in adding their testimony to the
lad's genius, and the latter even acquired the habit of submitting his
own poems to the young poet's judgment.
Púshkin was an omnivorous reader, but his parents had never been pleased
with his progress in his studies, or regarded him as clever. The praise
of competent judges now opened their eyes; but he had a good deal to
endure from his father, later on, in spite of this. At this period,
Púshkin imitated the most varied poetical forms with wonderful delicacy,
and yielded to the most diverse poetical moods. But even then he was
entering on a new path, whose influence on later Russian literature was
destined to be incalculably great. While still a school-boy, he began to
write his famous fantastic-romantic poem, "Ruslán and Liudmíla" (which
Glínka afterwards made the subject of a charming opera), and here, for
the first time in Russian literary history, a thoroughly national theme
was handled with a freedom and naturalness which dealt the death-blow to
the prevailing inflated, rhetorical style. The subject of the poem was
one of the folk-legends, of which he had been fond as a child; and when
it was published, in 1820, the critics were dumb with amazement. The
gay, even dissipated, society life which he took up on leaving the
Lyceum came to a temporary end in consequence of some biting epigrams
which he wrote. The Prefect of St. Petersburg called him to account for
his attacks on prominent people, and transferred him from the ministry
of foreign affairs to southern Russia--in fact, to polite exile--giving
him a corresponding position in another department of the government.
For four years (1820-1824) he lived chiefly in southern Russia,
including the Crimea and the Caucasus, and wrote, "The Prisoner of the
Caucasus," "The Fountain of Baktchesarái," "The Gypsies," and a part of
his famous "Evgény Onyégin," being, at this period, strongly influenced
by Byron, as the above-mentioned poems and the short lyrics of the same
period show. Again his life and his poetry were changed radically by a
caustic but witty and amusing epigram on his uncongenial official
superior in Odessa; and on the latter's complaint to headquarters--the
complaint being as neat as the epigram, in its way--Púshkin was ordered
to reside on one of the paternal estates, in the government of Pskoff.
Here, under the influence of his old nurse, Arína Rodiónovna, and her
folk-tales, he became thoroughly and definitively Russian, and entered
at last on his real career--poetry which was truly national in spirit.
His talents were now completely matured. His wonderfully developed
harmony of versification has never been approached by any later poet,
except, in places, by Lérmontoff. Quite peculiar to himself, at that
day--and even much later--are his vivid delineations of character, and
his simple but startlingly lifelike and truthful pictures of every-day
life. If his claim to immortality rested on no other foundation than
these, it would still be incontestable, for all previous Russian writers
had scorned such commonplaces.
In 1826 he returned to the capital, having been restored to favor, and
resumed his gay life, which on the whole, had a deleterious influence on
his talents. In 1831 he married a very beautiful and extravagant woman,
after which he was constantly in financial distress, his own social
ambitions and lavish expenditure being equally well developed with the
same tastes in his wife. His inclination to write poetry was destroyed.
He took to historical research, wrote a "History of Pugatchéff's
Rebellion," and a celebrated tale, "The Captain's Daughter" (the scene
of the latter being laid in the same epoch), and other stories. In
these, almost simultaneously with Gógol, he laid the foundations for the
vivid, modern school of the Russian novel. He was killed in a duel with
Baron George Hekkeren-Dantes, who had been persecuting his wife with
unwelcome attentions, in January, 1837. Baron Hekkeren-Dantes died only
a year or two ago.
As a school-boy he had instinctively turned into a new path, that of
national Russian literature. For this national service, and because he
was the first to realize the poetic ideal, his countrymen adored him. To
the highest external elegance and the most exquisite beauty, he fitly
wedded inward force and wealth of thought, in the most incomparable
manner. His finest effort, "Evgény Onyégin" (1822-1829), exhibits the
poet in the process of development, from the Byronic stage to the
vigorous independence of a purely national writer. The hero, Evgény
Onyégin, begins as a society young man of the period; that is to say, he
was inevitably a Byronic character. His father's death calls him from
the dissipations of the capital to the quiet life of a country estate.
He regards his neighbors as his inferiors, both in culture and social
standing, and for a long time will have nothing to do with them. At
last, rather accidentally, he strikes up a friendship with Lénsky, a
congenial spirit, a young poet, who has had the advantage of foreign
education, the son of one of the neighbors. Olga Lárin, the young
daughter of another neighbor, has long been betrothed to Lénsky, and the
latter naturally introduces Onyégin to her family. Olga's elder sister,
Tatyána, promptly falls in love with Onyégin, and in a letter, which is
always quoted as one of the finest passages in Russian literature, and
the most perfect portrait of the noble Russian woman's soul, she
declares her love for him. Onyégin politely snubs her, lecturing her in
a fatherly way, and no one is informed of the occurrence, except
Tatyána's old nurse, who, though stupid, is absolutely devoted to her,
and does not betray the knowledge which she has, involuntarily,
acquired. Not long afterwards, Tatyána's name-day festival is celebrated
by a dinner, at which Onyégin is present, being urged thereto by Lénsky.
He goes, chiefly, that no comment may arise from any abrupt change of
his ordinary friendly manners. The family, ignorant of what has happened
between him and Tatyána, and innocently scheming to bring them together,
place him opposite her at dinner. Angered by this, he revenges himself
on the wholly innocent Lénsky, by flirting outrageously with Olga (the
wedding-day is only a fortnight distant), and Olga, being as vain and
weak as she is pretty, does her share. The result is, that Lénsky
challenges Onyégin to a duel, and the seconds insist that it must be
fought, though Onyégin would gladly apologize. He kills Lénsky,
unintentionally, and immediately departs on his travels. Olga speedily
consoles herself, and marries a handsome officer. Tatyána, a girl of
profound feelings, remains inconsolable, refuses all offers of marriage,
and at last, yielding to the entreaties of her anxious relatives,
consents to spend a season in Moscow. As a wall-flower, at her first
ball, she captivates a wealthy prince, of very high standing in St.
Petersburg, and is persuaded by her parents to marry him. When Onyégin
returns to the capital he finds the little country girl, whose love he
had scorned, one of the greatest ladies at the court and in society; and
he falls madly in love with her. Her cold indifference galls him, and
increases his love. He writes three letters, to which she does not
reply. Then he forces himself into her boudoir and finds her reading one
of his letters and weeping over it. She then confesses that she loves
him still, but dismisses him with the assurance that she will remain
true to her noble and loving husband. Tatyána is regarded as one of the
finest, most vividly faithful portraits of the genuine Russian woman in
all Russian literature; while Olga is considered fully her equal, as a
type, and in popular sympathy; and the other characters are almost
equally good in their various lines.
Besides a host of beautiful lyric poems, Púshkin left several dramatic
fragments: "The Rusálka" or "Water Nymph," on which Dargomýzhsky founded
a beautiful opera, "The Stone Guest,"[11] "The Miserly Knight," and
chief of all, and like "Evgény Onyégin," epoch-making in its line, the
historical dramatic fragment "Borís Godunóff." This founded a school in
Russian dramatic writing. It is impossible to do justice in translation
to the exquisite lyrics; but the following soliloquy, from "Borís
Godunóff," will serve to show Púshkin's power in blank verse. Borís
Godunóff, brother-in-law to the Tzar Feódor Mikháilovitch, has at last
reached the goal of his ambition, and mounted the throne, at what cost
his own speech shows: Scene: The Imperial Palace. The Tzar enters:
I've reached the height of power;
'Tis six years now that I have reigned in peace;
But there's no happiness within my soul.
Is it not thus--in youth we thirst and crave
The joy of love; but once that we have quenched
Our hungry heart with brief possession,
We're tired, and cold, and weary on the instant!
The sorcerers in vain predict long life;
And promise days of undisturbed power.
Nor power, nor life, nor aught can cheer my heart;
My soul forebodeth heaven's wrath and woe.
I am not happy. I did think to still
With plenty and with fame my people here;
To win for aye their love by bounties free.
But vain are all my cares and empty toils:
A living power is hated by the herd;
They love the dead alone, only the dead.
What fools we are, when popular applause,
Or the loud shout of masses thrills our heart!
God sent down famine on this land of ours;
The people howled, gave up the ghost in torment;
I threw the granaries open, and my gold
I showered upon them; sought out work for them.
Made mad by suffering, they turned and cursed me!
By conflagrations were their homes destroyed;
I built for them their dwellings fair and new;
And they accused me--said I had set the fires!
That's the Lord's judgment;--seek its love who will!
Then dreamed I bliss in mine own home to find;
I thought to make my daughter blest in wedlock:
Death, like a whirlwind, snatched her betrothed away,
And rumor craftily insinuates
That I am author of my own child's widowhood:--
I, I, unhappy father that I am!
Let a man die--I am his secret slayer.
I hastened on the death of Féodor;
I gave my sister, the Tzarítza, poison;
I poisoned her, the lovely nun,--still I!
Ah, yes, I know it: naught can give us calm,
Amid the sorrows of this present world;
Conscience alone, mayhap:
Thus, when 'tis pure, it triumphs
O'er bitter malice, o'er dark calumny;
But if there be in it a single stain,
One, only one, by accident contracted,
Why then, all's done; as with foul plague
The soul consumes, the heart is filled with gall,
Reproaches beat, like hammers, in the ears,
The man turns sick, his head whirls dizzily,
And bloody children float before my eyes.[12]
I'd gladly flee--yet whither? Horrible!
Yea, sad his state, whose conscience is not clean.
QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW
1. How did the reign of Katherine II. mark a distinct advance
in the development of Russian literature?
2. Describe the literary activities of Katherine II.
3. Who was Princess Dáshkoff?
4. Describe the early life and character of Von Vízin.
5. What qualities did he show in his play "The Brigadier"?
6. How did the characters in his "The Hobbledehoy" compare with
those in the plays of Katherine II.?
7. Give an account of this play.
8. Give the chief events in the life of Derzhávin.
9. Why is he especially worthy to be remembered?
10. What are some of the beautiful thoughts in the ode "God"?
11. How was Kheraskóff regarded in his own day?
12. What was the character of Bogdanóvitch's poem, "Dúshenka"?
13. What influence had the fables of Khémnitzer?
14. Give examples of them.
15. What incidents show the effect of his comedy "Calumny"?
16. Give an account of the life of Karamzín.
17. Give examples of the character of some of his sentimental
tales.
18. What real services did he render to Russian literature?
19. What importance had Dmítrieff and Ózeroff?
20. How did the translations of German and French writers, made
by Zhukóvsky, affect the literary ideals of his time?
21. Give the chief facts in the life of Krylóff.
22. Give examples of his fables.
23. Describe the ancestry and early life of Púshkin.
24. What is his position in Russian literature?
25. How were his talents shown in Evgény Onyégin?
26. What is the character of the soliloquy from Borís Godunóff?
BIBLIOGRAPHY
_The Memoirs of the Empress Katherine II._ Written by herself.
_The Princess Dáshkoff._ Memoirs written by herself, and
containing letters of the Empress Katherine II.
_Original Fables._ Krylóff. (The translation by Mr. Harrison,
London, 1884, is regarded as the best of the twelve
translations of Krylóff's works.)
_Specimens from the Russian Poets._ 2 volumes. By Sir John
Bowring. Specimens of poetry from Lomonósoff through Zhukóvsky.
_Prose Tales._ Alexánder Púshkin. Translated by T. Keane.
_Translations from Púshkin, in Memory of the Hundredth
Anniversary of the Poet's Birthday._ C. E. Turner.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] I take this translation from Sir John Bowring's "Specimens of the
Russian Poets," rather than attempt a metrical translation myself. It is
reasonably close to the original--as close as most metrical translations
are--and gives the spirit extremely well. Sir John Bowring adds the
following footnote: "This is the poem of which Golovnin says in his
narrative, that it has been rendered into Japanese, by order of the
emperor, and hung up, embroidered in gold, in the Temple of Jeddo. I
learn from the periodicals that an honor somewhat similar has been done
in China to the same poem. It has been translated into the Chinese and
Tartar languages, written on a piece of rich silk, and suspended in the
imperial palace at Pekin." There are several editions of Sir John's
book, the one here used being the second, 1821; but the author admits
that in the first edition he stretched the poetic license further than
he had a right to do, in this first verse. The book is now rare, but
this statement will serve as a warning to those who may happen upon the
first edition.
[6] Karamzín's youngest daughter, by his second marriage, was alive when
I was in Russia,--a charming old lady. She gave me her own copy of her
"favorite book," a volume (in French) by Khomyakóff, very rare and
difficult to obtain; and in discussing literary matters, wound up thus:
"They may say what they will about the new men, but no one ever wrote
such a beautiful style as my dear papa!" I also knew some of Ózeroff's
relatives.
[7] Pronounced Alyóg.
[8] A translation of this--which is too long to quote here--may be found
in Sir John Bowring's "Specimens of the Russian Poets," Vol. II.
[9] These imperial favors and pensions were continued to his children.
His son, an artist, regularly visited Russia as the guest of Alexander
III. I met him on two occasions and was enabled to judge of his father's
charms of mind and manner.
[10] This building still exists, with its garden alluded to in the
"Memories." But though it still bears its name, it is connected by a
glazed gallery with the old palace, famous chiefly as Katherine II.'s
residence, across the street; and it is used for suites of apartments,
allotted for summer residence to certain courtiers. The exact
arrangement of the rooms in Púshkin's day is not now known.
[11] "The Stone Guest" is founded on the Don Juan legend, like the
familiar opera "Don Giovanni." Músorgsky set it to music, in sonorous,
Wagnerian recitative style (though the style was original with him, not
copied from Wagner, who came later). It is rarely given in public, but I
had the pleasure of hearing it rendered by famous artists, accompanied
by the composer Balakíreff, at the house of a noted art and musical
critic in St. Petersburg.
[12] The reference is to Godunóff's presumptive share in the murder, at
Úglitch, of Iván the Terrible's infant heir, the Tzarévitch Dmítry.