He came back into the cottage, and began to rake over the

ashes.

"Well, Wolf," I said at last, "you have astonished me. I see

that you are a splendid young fellow."

"Ekh, stop that, master," he interrupted me, with vexation.

"Only please don't tell about it. Now I'd better show you your

way," he added, "because you can't wait for the rain to stop."

The wheels of the peasant's cart rumbled through the yard.

"You see, he has dragged himself off," he muttered; "but I'll

give it to him!"

Half an hour later he bade me farewell on the edge of the

forest.

QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW

1. At what critical period of Russian history was Gontcharóff's

famous novel "Oblómoff" written?

2. Why did it furnish a new word to the Russian language?

3. What traits did this word represent?

4. What was the peculiar merit of the short stories of

Grigoróvitch?

5. What was the special strength of the "School of the

Forties"?

6. Give an account of the life of Turgéneff.

7. What did he try to show in "Hamlet and Don Quixote"?

8. What opposition arose to his "Fathers and Children"?

9. What are the striking features of his style?

10. What characteristics of this style are shown in "The Wolf"?

BIBLIOGRAPHY

The works of Turgéneff are easily accessible in several English

translations.

FOOTNOTES:

[22] Pronounced Aryól.

[23] This vehicle, which is also the best adapted as a convenient

runabout for rough driving in the country, consists merely of a board,

attached, without a trace of springs, to two pairs of wheels, identical

in size.

[24] In the government of Orél (pronounced Aryól) a solitary, surly man

is called a wolf-_biriúk_.

[25] For a nursing-bottle, the Russian peasants use a cow's horn, with a

cow's teat tied over the tip.

CHAPTER X

SEVENTH PERIOD: OSTRÓVSKY, A. K. TOLSTÓY, POLÓNSKY, NEKRÁSOFF,

SHEVTCHÉNKO, AND OTHERS.

The new impulse imparted to all branches of literature in Russia during

the '50's and the '60's could not fail to find a reflection in the

fortunes of the drama also. Nowhere is the spirit of the period more

clearly set forth than in the history of the Russian theater, by the

creation of an independent Russian stage.

Russian comedy had existed from the days of Sumarókoff, as we have seen,

and had included such great names as Von Vízin, Griboyédoff, and Gógol.

But great as were the works of these authors, they cannot be called its

creators, in the true sense of the word, because their plays were like

oases far apart, separated by great intervals of time, and left behind

them no established school. Although Von Vízin's comedies contain much

that is independent and original, they are fashioned after the models of

the French stage, as is apparent at every step. "Woe from Wit" counts

rather as a specimen of talented social satire than as a model comedy,

and in its type, this comedy of Griboyédoff also bears the imprint of

the French stage. Gógol's comedies, despite their great talent, left

behind them no followers, and had no imitators. In the '30's and the

'40's the repertory of the Russian theater consisted of plays which had

nothing in common with "Woe from Wit," "The Inspector," or "Marriage,"

and the latter was rarely played. As a whole, the stage was given over

to translations of sensational French melodramas and to patriotic

tragedies.

The man who changed all this and created Russian drama, Alexánder

Nikoláevitch Ostróvsky (1823-1886), was born in Moscow, the son of a

poor lawyer, whose business lay with the merchant class of the

Trans-Moscow River quarter, of the type which we meet with in Alexánder

Nikoláevitch's celebrated comedies. The future dramatist, who spent most

of his life in Moscow, was most favorably placed to observe the varied

characteristics of Russian life, and also Russian historical types; for

Moscow, in the '30's and '40's of the nineteenth century, was the focus

of all Russia, and contained within its walls all the historical and

contemporary peculiarities of the nation. On leaving the University

(where he did not finish the course), in 1843, Ostróvsky entered the

civil service in the commercial court, where he enjoyed further

opportunities of enlarging his observations on the life of the

Trans-Moscow quarter. In 1847 he made his first appearance in

literature, with "Scenes of Family Happiness in Moscow," which was

printed in a Moscow newspaper. Soon afterwards he printed, in the same

paper, several scenes from his comedy "Svoí liúdi--sotchtyémsya," which

may be freely translated, "It's All in the Family: We'll Settle It Among

Ourselves." This gained him more reputation, and he resigned from the

service to devote himself entirely to literature, as proof-reader,

writer of short articles, and so forth, earning a miserably small

salary. When the comedy just mentioned was printed, in 1847, it bore the

title of "The Bankrupt," and was renamed in deference to the objections

of the censor. It made a tremendous commotion in Russian society, where

it was read aloud almost daily, and one noted man remarked of it, "It

was not written; it was born." But the Moscow merchants took umbrage at

the play, made complaints in the proper quarter, and the author was

placed under police supervision, while the newspapers were forbidden to

mention the comedy. Naturally it was not acted. The following summary

will not only indicate the reason therefor, and for the wrath of the

merchants, but will also afford an idea of his style in the first comedy

which was acted, his famous "Don't Seat Yourself in a Sledge Which is

not Yours" ("Shoemaker, Stick to Your Last," is the English equivalent),

produced in 1853, and in others:

IT'S ALL IN THE FAMILY: WE'LL SETTLE IT AMONG OURSELVES.

Samsón Sílitch Bolshóff (Samson, son of Strong Big), a Moscow

merchant, has a daughter, Olympiáda, otherwise known as

Lípotchka.

Lípotchka has been "highly educated," according to the ideas of

the merchant class, considers herself a lady, and despises her

parents and their "coarse" ways. This remarkable education

consists in a smattering of the customary feminine

accomplishments, especial value being attached to a knowledge

of French, which is one mark of the gentry in Russia.

Like all merchants' daughters who have been educated above

their sphere, Lípotchka aspires to marry a noble, preferably a

military man. The play opens with a soliloquy by Lípotchka, who

meditates upon the pleasures of the dance.

"What an agreeable occupation these dances are! Just think how

fine! What can be more entrancing? You enter an assembly, or

some one's wedding, you sit down; naturally, you are all decked

with flowers, you are dressed up like a doll, or like a picture

in a paper; suddenly a cavalier flies up, 'Will you grant me

the happiness, madam?' Well, you see if he is a man with

understanding, or an army officer, you half-close your eyes,

and reply, 'With pleasure!' Ah! Cha-a-arming! It is simply

beyond comprehension! I no longer like to dance with students

or shop-clerks. 'Tis quite another thing to distinguish

yourself with military men! Ah, how delightful! How enchanting!

And their mustaches, and their epaulets, and their uniforms,

and some even have spurs with bells.... I am amazed that so

many women should sit with their feet tucked up under them.

Really, it is not at all difficult to learn. Here am I, who was

ashamed to take a teacher. I have learned everything,

positively everything, in twenty lessons. Why should not one

learn to dance? It is pure superstition! Here is mama, who used

to get angry because the teacher was always clutching at my

knees. That was because she is not cultured. Of what importance

is it? He's only the dancing-master."

Lípotchka proceeds to picture to herself that she receives a

proposal from an officer, and that he thinks she is uneducated

because she gets confused. She has not danced for a year and a

half, and decides to practice a little. As she is dancing, her

mother enters, and bids her to stop--dancing is a sin.

Lípotchka refuses, and an acrimonious wrangle ensues between

mother and daughter, about things in general. The mother

reproaches Lípotchka for her ways, reminds her that her parents

have educated her, and so forth. To this Lípotchka retorts that

other people have taught her all she knows--and why have her

parents refused that gentleman of good birth who has asked for

her hand? Is he not a Cupid? (she pronounces it "Capid.") There

is no living with them, and so forth. The female match-maker

comes to inform them how she is progressing in her search for a

proper match for Lípotchka, and the latter declares stoutly,

that she will never marry a merchant. The match-maker, a famous

figure in old Russia life, and irresistibly comic on the stage,

habitually addresses her clients as, "my silver ones," "my

golden ones," "my emerald ones," "my brilliant (or diamond)

ones," which she pronounces "bralliant." Matters are nearly

arranged for Lípotchka's marriage with a man of good birth.

Old Bolshóff, however, is represented as being in a financial

position where he can take his choice between paying all his

debts and being thus left penniless but honest; and paying his

creditors nothing, or, at most, a quarter of their dues, and

remaining rich enough to indulge in the luxury of a noble

son-in-law, the only motive on whose part for such a marriage

being, naturally, the bride's dowry.

Old Bolshóff decides to defraud his creditors, with the aid of

a pettifogging lawyer, and he makes over all his property to

his clerk, Podkhaliúzin. The latter has long sighed for

Lípotchka, but his personal repulsiveness, added to his

merchant rank, has prevented his ever daring to hint at such a

thing. Now, however, he sees his chance. He promises the legal

shyster a round sum if he will arrange matters securely in his

favor. He bribes the match-maker to get rid of the noble

suitor, and to bring about his marriage with Lípotchka,

promising her, in case of success, two thousand rubles and a

sable-lined cloak.

Matters have gone so far that Lípotchka is gorgeously arrayed

to receive her nobly born suitor, and accept him. Her mother is

feasting her eyes on her adored child, in one of the intervals

of her grumbling and bickering with her "ungrateful offspring,"

and warning the dear idol not to come in contact with the door,

and crush her finery. But the match-maker announces that the

man has beaten a retreat; Lípotchka falls in a swoon. Her

father declares that there is no occasion for that, as he has a

suitable match at hand. He calls in Podkhaliúzin, whom

Lípotchka despises, and presents him, commanding his daughter

to wed. Lípotchka flatly refuses. But after a private interview

with the ambitious clerk, in which the latter informs her that

she no longer possesses a dowry wherewith to attract a noble

suitor, and in which he promises that she shall have the

greatest liberty and be indulged in any degree of extravagance,

she consents.

The marriage takes place. But old Bolshóff has been put in

prison by his enraged creditors, while the young couple have

been fitting up a new house in gorgeous style on the old

merchant's money. The pettifogging lawyer comes for his

promised reward. Podkhaliúzin cheats him out of it. The

match-maker comes for her two thousand rubles and sable-lined

cloak and gets one hundred rubles and a cheap gown. As these

people depart cursing, old Bolshóff is brought in by his guard.

He has come to entreat his wealthy son-in-law to pay the

creditors twenty-five per cent and so release him from prison.

Podkhaliúzin declares that this is impossible; the old man has

given him his instructions to pay only ten per cent, and

really, he cannot afford to pay more. The old man's darling

Lípotchka joins in and supports her husband's plea that they

positively cannot afford more. The old man is taken back to

prison, preliminary to being sent to Siberia as a fraudulent

bankrupt. The young couple take the matter quite coolly until

the policeman comes to carry off Podkhaliúzin to prison, for

collusion. Even then the rascally ex-clerk does not lose his

coolness, and when informed by the policeman--in answer to his

question as to what is to become of him--that he will probably

be sent to Siberia, "Well, if it is to be Siberia, Siberia let

it be! What of that! People live in Siberia also. Evidently

there is no escape. I am ready."

Although "Shoemaker, Stick to Your Last," the central idea of which is

that girls of the merchant class will be much happier if they marry in

their own class than if they wed nobles, who take them solely for their

money (the usual reason for such alliances, even at the present day),

had an immense success, both in Moscow and in St. Petersburg, Ostróvsky

received not a penny from it. In the latter city, also, the censor took

a hand, because "the nobility was put to shame for the benefit of the

merchant class," and the theater management was greatly agitated when

the Emperor and all the imperial family came to the first performance.

But the Emperor remarked, "There are very few plays which have given me

so much pleasure; it is not a play, it is a lesson."

"The Poor Bride" (written in 1852) was then put on the stage, and the

author received a small payment on the spot. In 1854 "Poverty is not a

Vice" appeared, and confirmed the author's standing as a writer of the

first class. This play, a great favorite still, contains many

presentations of old Russian customs. It was the first from which the

author received a regular royalty, ranging from one-twentieth to

two-thirds of the profits.

After many more comedies, all more or less noted, all more or less

objected to by the censor, for various reasons, and hostility and bad

treatment on the part of the theatrical authorities, Ostróvsky attained

the zenith of his literary fame with his masterpiece, "Grozá" ("The

Thunderstorm"). It was not until 1856, in his comedy "A Drunken Headache

from Another Man's Banquet" (meaning, "to bear another's trouble"), that

Ostróvsky invented the words which have passed into the language,

_samodúr_ and _samodúrstvo_ (which mean, literally, "self-fool" and "the

state of being a self-fool"). The original "self-fool" is "Tit Tititch

Bruskóff" (provincially pronounced "Kit Kititch" in the play), but no

better example of the pig-headed, obstinate, self-complacent,

vociferous, intolerable tyrant which constitutes the "self-fool" can be

desired than that offered in "The Thunderstorm" by Márfa Ignátievna

Kabánoff, the rich merchant's widow. She rules her son, Tíkhon, and his

wife, Katerína, with a rod of iron. Her daughter, Varvára, gets along

with her by consistent deceitfulness, and meets her lover, Kudryásh,

whenever she pleases. Tíkhon goes off for a short time on business, and

anxious to enjoy a little freedom, he persistently refuses to take his

wife with him, despite her urgent entreaties. She makes the request

because she feels that she is falling in love with Borís.

After his departure, Varvára takes charge of her fate and persuades her

to indulge her affection and to see Borís. Katerína eventually yields to

Varvára's representations. A half-mad old lady, who wanders about

attended by a couple of lackeys, has previously frightened the sensitive

Katerína (who was reared amid family affection, and cannot understand or

endure the tyranny of her mother-in-law) by vague predictions and

threats of hell; and when a thunderstorm suddenly breaks over the

assembled family, after her husband's return, and the weird old lady

again makes her appearance, Katerína is fairly crazed. She thinks the

terrible punishment for her wayward affections has arrived; she

confesses to her husband and mother-in-law that she loves Borís. Spurned

by the latter--though the husband is not inclined to attach overmuch

importance to what she says, in her startled condition--she rushes off

and drowns herself. The savage mother-in-law, who is to blame for the

entire tragedy, sternly commands her son not to mourn for his dead wife,

whom he has loved in the feeble way which such a tyrant has permitted.

This outline gives hardly an idea of the force of the play, and its

value as a picture of Russian manners of the old school in general, and

of the merchant class (who retained them long after they were much

ameliorated in other classes of society) in particular.

But Ostróvsky did not confine his dramas within narrow limits. On the

contrary, they present a wonderfully broad panorama of Russian life, and

attain to a universality which has been reached by no other Russian

writer save Púshkin and Count L. N. Tolstóy. There are plays from

prehistoric, mythical times, and historical plays, which deal with

prominent epochs in the life of the nation. A great favorite, partly

because of its pictures of old Russian customs, is "The Voevóda" or

"The Dream on the Volga" (1865). "Vasilísa Meléntieff" is popular for

the same reasons (1868). Ostróvsky's nervous organization was broken

down by the incessant toil necessary to support his family, and these

historical plays were written, with others, to relieve the pressure. His

dramas were given all over Russia, and he received more money from

private than from the government theaters. But towards the end of his

life comfort came, and during the last year of his life he was in charge

of the Moscow (government) Theater. At last he was master of the Russian

stage, and established a school of dramatic art on the lines laid down

by himself. But the toil was too great for his shattered health, and he

died in 1886. His plays are wonderfully rich as a portrait-gallery of

contemporary types, as well as of historical types, and the language of

his characters is one of the most surprising features of his work. It is

far too little to say of it that it is natural, and fits the characters

presented: in nationality, in figurativeness, in keen, unfeigned humor

and wit it represents the richest treasure of the Russian speech. Only

three writers are worthy of being ranked together in this respect:

Púshkin, Krylóff, and Ostróvsky.

While, like all the writers of the '40's, Ostróvsky is the pupil of

Gógol, he created his own school, and attained an independent position

from his very first piece. His plays have only one thing in common with

Gógol's--he draws his scenes from commonplace, every-day life in Russia,

his characters are unimportant, every-day people. Gógol's comedies were

such in the strict meaning of the word, and their object was to cast

ridicule on the acting personages, to bring into prominence the absurd

sides of their characters; and this aim accomplished, the heroes leave

the stage without having undergone any change in their fates. With

Ostróvsky's comedies it is entirely different. The author is not felt in

them. The persons of the drama talk and act in defiance of him, so to

speak, as they would talk and act in real life, and decided changes in

their fate take place. But Ostróvsky accomplished far more than the

creation of a Russian theater: he brought the stage to the highest pitch

of ideal realism, and discarded all ancient traditions. The subjects of

his plays are distinguished for their classic simplicity; life itself

flows slowly across the stage, as though the author had demolished a

wall and were exhibiting the actual life within the house. His plays,

like life, break off short, after the climax, with some insignificant

scene, generally between personages of secondary rank, and he tries to

convince the audience that in life there are no beginnings, no endings;

that there is no moment after which one would venture to place a full

period. Moreover, they are "plays of life" rather than either "comedies"

or "tragedies," as he chanced to label them; they are purely

presentations of life. In their scope they include almost every phase of

Russian life, except peasant and country life, which he had no chance to

study.

For the sake of convenience we may group the other dramatic writers

here. The conditions under which the Russian stage labored were so

difficult that the best literary talent was turned into other channels,

and the very few plays which were fitted to vie with Ostróvsky's came

from the pens of men whose chief work belonged to other branches of

literature. Thus Iván Sergyéevitch Turgéneff, who wrote more for the

stage than other contemporary writers, and whose plays fill one volume

of his collected works, distinguished himself far more in other lines.

Yet several of these plays hold the first place after Ostróvsky's. "The

Boarder" (1848), "Breakfast at the Marshal of Nobility's" (1849), "The

Bachelor" (1849), "A Month in the Country" (1850), "The Woman from the

Rural Districts" (1851) are still acted and enjoyed by the public.

Alexéi Feofiláktovitch Písemsky (best known for his "Thousand Souls" and

his "Troubled Sea," romances of a depressing sort) contributed to the

stage a play called "A Bitter Fate" (among others), wherein the Russian

peasant appeared for the first time in natural guise without

idealization or any decoration whatever.

Count Alexéi Konstantínovitch Tolstóy (1817-1875) wrote a famous trilogy

of historical plays: "The Death of Iván the Terrible" (1866), "Tzar

Feódor Ivánovitch" (1868), and "Tzar Borís" (1870). The above are the

dates of their publication. They appeared on the stage, the first in

1876, the other two in 1899, though they had been privately acted at the

Hermitage Theater, in the Winter Palace, long before that date. They are

fine reading plays, offering a profound study of history, but the epic

element preponderates over the dramatic element, and the characters set

forth their sentiments in extremely long monologues and conversations.

There have been many other dramatic writers, but none of great

distinction.

* * * * *

Count A. K. Tolstóy stood at the head of the school of purely artistic

poets who claimed that they alone were the faithful preservers of the

Púshkin tradition. But in this they were mistaken. Púshkin drew his

subjects from life; they shut themselves up in æsthetic contemplation

of the beautiful forms of classical art of ancient and modern times, and

isolated themselves from life in general. The result was, that they

composed poetry of an abstract, artistically dainty, elegantly

rhetorical sort, whose chief defect lay in its lack of individuality,

and the utter absence of all colors, sounds, and motives by which

Russian nationality and life are conveyed. The poetry of this school

contains no sharply cut features of spiritual physiognomy. All of them

flow together into a featureless mass of elegantly stereotyped forms and

sounds.

Count A. K. Tolstóy, who enjoyed all the advantages of education and

travel abroad (where he made acquaintance with Goethe), began to

scribble verses at the age of six, he says in his autobiography. Born in

1817, he became Master of the Hounds at the imperial court in 1857, and

died in 1875. He made his literary debut in 1842 with prose tales, and

only in 1855 did he publish his lyric and epic verses in various

newspapers. His best poetical efforts, beautiful as they are in external

form, are characterless, and remind one of Zhukóvsky's, in that they

were influenced by foreign or Russian poets--Lérmontoff, for instance.

But they have not a trace of genuine, unaffected feeling, of vivid,

burning passion, of inspiration. His best work is his prose historical

romance, "Prince Serébryany," which gives a lively and faithful picture

of Iván the Terrible, his court, and life in his day. The dramas already

mentioned are almost if not equally famous in Russia, though less known

abroad. "Prince Serébryany," and "War and Peace" by the former author's

more illustrious cousin, Count L. N. Tolstóy, are the best historical

novels in the Russian language.

Another poet of this period was Apollón Nikoláevitch Máikoff, born in

1821, the son of a well-known painter. During his first period he gave

himself up to classical, bloodless poems, of which one of the most noted

is "Two Worlds," which depicts the clash of heathendom and Christianity

at the epoch of the fall of Rome. This poem he continued to write all

his life; the prologue, "Three Deaths," begun in 1841, was not finished

until 1872. To this period, also, belong "Two Judgments," "Sketches of

Rome," "Anacreon," "Alcibiades," and so forth. His second and best

period began in 1855, when he abandoned his cold classicism and wrote

his best works: "Clermont Cathedral," "Savonarola," "Foolish Dúnya,"

"The Last Heathens," "Pólya," "The Little Picture," and a number of

beautiful translations from Heine.

Still another poet was Afanásy Afanásievitch Shénshin, who wrote under

the name of Fet. Born in 1820, he began to write at the age of nineteen.

About that time, on entering the Moscow University, he experienced some

difficulty in furnishing the requisite documents, whereupon he assumed

the name of his mother during her first marriage--Fet. He reacquired his

own name, Shénshin, in 1875, by presenting the proper documents,

whereupon an imperial order restored it to him. From 1844 to 1855 he

served in the army, continuing to write poetry the while. Before his

death, in 1892, he published numerous volumes of poems, translations

from the classics, and so forth. Less talented than Count Alexéi K.

Tolstóy, Apollón Máikoff, and other poets of that school, his name, in

Russian criticism, has become a general appellation to designate a poet

of pure art, for he was the most typical exponent of his school. Most of

his poems are short, and present a picture of nature, or of some

delicate, fleeting psychical emotion, but they are all filled with

enchanting, artistic charm. His poetry is the quintessence of æsthetic

voluptuousness, such as was evolved on the soil of the sybaritism of the

landed gentry in the circles of the '40's of the nineteenth century.

The oldest of all these worshipers of pure art was Feódor Ivánovitch

Tiútcheff (1803-1873). At the age of seventeen he made a remarkably fine

translation of some of Horace's works. He rose to very fine positions in

the diplomatic service and at court. Although his first poems were

printed in 1826, he was not widely known until 1850-1854. His scope is

not large, and he is rather wearisome in his faultless poems. The

majority of them are rather difficult reading.

A poet who did not wholly belong to this school, but wrote in many

styles, was Yákoff Petróvitch Polónsky (1820-1898).[26] Under different

conditions he might have developed fire and originality, both in his

poems and his prose romances. His best known poem is "The

Grasshopper-Musician" (1863). He derived his inspiration from various

foreign poets, and also from many of his fellow-countrymen. Among

others, those in the spirit of Koltzóff's national ballads are not only

full of poetry and inspiration, art and artless simplicity, but some of

them have been set to music, have made their way to the populace, and

are sung all over Russia. Others, like "The Sun and the Moon" and "The

Baby's Death" are to be found in every Russian literary compendium, and

every child knows them by heart.

But while the poetry of this period could not boast of any such great

figures as the preceding period, it had, nevertheless, another camp

besides that of the "pure art" advocates whom we have just noticed. At

the head of the second group, which clung to the æsthetic doctrine that

regarded every-day life as the best source of inspiration and contained

several very talented expositors, stood Nikolái Alexyéevitch Nekrásoff

(1821-1877). Nekrásoff belonged to an impoverished noble family, which

had once been very wealthy, and was still sufficiently well off to have

educated him in comfort. But when his father sent him to St. Petersburg

to enter a military school he was persuaded to abandon that career and

take a course at the University. His father was so enraged at this step

that he cast him off, and the lad of sixteen found himself thrown upon

his own resources. He nearly starved to death and underwent such

hardships that his health was injured for life, but he did not manage to

complete the University course. These very hardships contributed

greatly, no doubt, to the power of his poetry later on, even though they

exerted a hardening effect upon his character, and aroused in him the

firm resolve to acquire wealth at any cost. Successful as his

journalistic enterprises were in later life, it is known that he could

not have assured himself the comfortable fortune he enjoyed from that

source alone, and he is said to have won most of it at the

gambling-table. This fact and various other circumstances may have

exercised some influence upon the judgment of a section of the public as

to his literary work. There is hardly any other Russian writer over

whose merits such heated discussions take place as over Nekrásoff, one

party maintaining that he was a true poet, with genuine inspiration;

the other, that he was as clever with his poetry in a business sense, as

he was with financial operations, and that he possessed no feeling,

inspiration, or poetry.[27] The truth would seem to lie between these

two extremes. Like all the other writers of his day--like writers in

general--he was unconsciously impressed by the spirit of the time, and

changed his subjects and treatment as it changed; and like every other

writer, some of his works are superior in feeling and truth to others.

The most important period of his life was that from 1841 to 1845, when

his talent was forming and ripening. Little is known with definiteness

regarding this period, but it is certain that while pursuing his

literary labors, he moved in widely differing circles of

society--fashionable, official, literary, theatrical, that of the

students, and others--which contributed to the truth of his pictures

from these different spheres in his poems. In 1847 he was able (in

company with Panáeff) to buy "The Contemporary," of which, eventually,

he became the sole proprietor and editor, and with which his name is

indelibly connected. When this journal was dropped, in 1866, he became

the head, in 1868, of "The Annals of the Fatherland," where he remained

until his death. It was during these last ten years of his life that he

wrote his famous poems, "Russian Women" and "Who in Russia Finds Life

Good," with others of his best poems. He never lost his adoration of

the critic Byelínsky, to whom he attributed his own success, as the

result of judicious development of his powers.

One of the many conflicting opinions concerning him is, that he is

merely a satirist, "The Russian Juvenal," which opinion is founded on

his contributions to "The Whistle," a publication added, as a

supplement, to "The Contemporary," about 1857. Yet his satirical verses

form but an insignificant part of his writings. And although there does

exist a certain monotony of gloomy depression in the tone of all his

writings, yet they are so varied in form and contents that it is

impossible to classify them under any one heading without resorting to

undue violence. He is not the poet of any one class of society, of any

one party or circle, but expresses in his poetry the thoughts of a whole

cycle of his native land, the tears of all his contemporaries and

fellow-countrymen. This apparently would be set down to the credit of

any other man, and regarded as a proof that he kept in intimate touch

with the spirit and deepest sentiments of his time, instead of being

reckoned a reproach, and a proof of commercialism. Moreover, he wrote

things which were entirely peculiar to himself, unknown hitherto, and

which had nothing in common with the purely reflective lyricism of the

'40's of the nineteenth century. These serve to complete his

significance as the universal bard of his people and his age, to which

he is already entitled by his celebration of all ranks and elements of

society, whose fermentation constitutes the actual essence of that

period.

There is one point to be noted about Nekrásoff which was somewhat

neglected by the critics during his lifetime. No other Russian poet of

that day was so fond of calling attention to the bright sides of the

national life, or depicted so many positive, ideal, brilliant types with

such fervent, purely Schilleresque, enthusiasm as Nekrásoff. And most

significant of all, his positive types are not of an abstract, fantastic

character, clothed in flesh and blood of the period and environment,

filled with conflicting, concrete characteristics--not one of them

resembles any other. He sought and found them in all classes of society;

in "Russian Women" he depicts the devoted princesses in the highest

circle of the social hierarchy, with absolute truth, as faithful

representatives of Russian life and Russian aristocrats, capable of

abandoning their life of ease and pleasure, and with heroism worthy of

the ancient classic heroines, accompanying their exiled husbands to

Siberia, and there cheerfully sharing their hardships. His pictures of

peasant life are equally fine; that in "Red-Nosed Frost" (the Russian

equivalent of Jack Frost) is particularly famous, and the peasant

heroine, in her lowly sphere, yields nothing in grandeur to the ladies

of the court.

The theme of "Red-Nosed Frost" may be briefly stated in a couple of its

verses, in the original meter:

There are women in Russian hamlets

With a dignified calmness of face;

With a beautiful strength in their movements,

With mien and glance of an empress in grace.

A blind man alone could ignore them;

And he who can see them must say:

"She passes--'tis as though the sun shineth!

She looks--'tis giving rubles away!"

A noble-minded, splendid peasant woman, who has worthily fulfilled all

the duties of her hard lot, at last becomes a widow. The manner of it;

the quaint folk-remedies employed to heal the sick man; the making of

the shroud by the bereaved wife; the digging of his grave by his father;

the funeral; all are described. The widow drives the sledge with the

coffin to the grave. On her return home she finds that the fire is out

and that there is no wood on hand. Intrusting her two children to the

care of a neighbor, she drives off with the sledge to the forest to cut

some. As she collects the fuel, her thoughts wander back over the past,

and she sees a vision of her life, its joys and sorrows. Just as she is

about to set out for home, she pauses, approaches a tall pine-tree with

her axe, and there Jack Frost woos and wins her, and she remains, frozen

stiff. The beauty and interest of the poem quite escape in this

(necessarily) bald summary. The same is the case with "Russian Women."

The first poem of this is entitled "Princess Trubetzkóy." It begins by

narrating how the "Count-father" prepares the covered traveling sledge

for the Princess, who is bent upon the long journey to Siberia, to join

her husband, one of the "Decembrists," exiled for participation in the

tumults of 1825, on the accession to the throne of Nicholas I. He

spreads a thick bear-skin rug, puts in down-pillows, hangs up a holy

image (_ikóna_) in the corner, grieving the while. After this prologue,

the journey of the devoted wife is described; the monotonous way being

spent in great part by the noble woman in vision-like memories of her

happy childhood, girlhood, and married life. On arriving at Irkútsk she

receives a visit from the governor, an old subordinate of her father,

who endeavors by every possible means to deter her from pursuing her

journey. She persists in demanding that fresh horses be put to her

sledge, and that she be allowed to proceed to the Nertchínsk mines,

where her husband is. Failing to frighten her by the description of the

hardships she will be compelled to endure, by telling her that she will

have to live in the common ward of the prison with hundreds of

prisoners, never see her husband alone, and the like, he at last informs

her that she can proceed only on condition that she renounces all her

rights, title, property. She demands the document on the instant and

signs it, and again demands her horses. The governor (who, by pleading

illness, has already detained the impatient woman a whole week) then

tells her that, having renounced her rights, she must traverse the

remaining eight hundred versts[28] on foot, like a common prisoner, and

that the majority fall by the way in so doing. Her only thought is the

extra time which this will require. The governor, having done his duty,

tells her that she shall have her horses and sledge as before; he will

assume the responsibility. She proceeds. Here the poem ends. But the

second poem, entitled "Princess Volkónsky," and dated 1826-1827 carries

the story further for both women. It takes the form of a tale told to

her grandchildren, to whom says the Princess Volkónsky, she will

bequeath flowers from her sister Muraviéff's grave (in Siberia), a

collection of butterflies, the flora of Tchitá, views of that savage

country, and an iron bracelet forged by their grandfather from his

chains. She narrates how, at the age of seventeen, she married the

Prince, a friend of her father, and the hero of many campaigns, much

older than herself, who even after the wedding, is absent the greater

part of the time on his military duties. Once, when they meet again

after one of these prolonged separations, he is suddenly seized with

panic, burns many documents in her presence, and takes her home to her

father without, however, explaining anything. After that she hears

nothing about him for many months; no letters reach her, every one

professes ignorance as to his whereabouts, but assures her he is engaged

in his duties. Even when her son is born he makes no sign, and all

further efforts to pacify her prove useless. She goes to St. Petersburg,

finds out the truth, and insists on joining her husband who, with Prince

Trubetzkóy and the other noble Decembrists, is in Siberia. Every effort

on the part of friends and relatives to prevent her leaving her baby and

taking this step prove of no avail. She obtains the Emperor's

permission, and sets out. The description of her journey is even more

graphic and touching than that of Princess Trubetzkóy's. She hears on

the way about the efforts which have been made to turn the latter from

her purpose, and that probably the same measures will be used with her.

At one point she meets the caravan which is bringing the silver from the

Nertchínsk mines to the capital, and she asks the young officer in

charge if the exiles are alive and well. He replies insultingly that he

knows nothing about such people. But one of the peasant-soldiers of the

caravan quietly gives her the desired information, and she adds, that

invariably throughout her long and trying experience the peasant men

have been truly sympathetic, helpful, and kind to the last degree, when

their superiors were not. Efforts to turn her aside fail. She overtakes

Princess Trubetzkóy, and the two friends pursue their sad journey

together. On arriving in Nertchínsk, the commandant questions their

right to see their husbands, refuses to recognize the Emperor's own

signature, says he will send to Irkútsk for information (they had

offered to go back themselves for it), and until it is received, they

will not be permitted to hold communication with those whom they have

come so far to see. The women resign themselves, and pass the night in a

peasant hut, so small that their heads touch the wall, their feet the

door. Princess Volkónsky, waking early, sets out on a stroll through the

village, and comes to the mouth of the mine-shaft, guarded by a sentry.

She prevails upon this sentry to let her descend, contrary to orders,

and after a long and arduous passage through the rough, dripping

corridors, and after running the risk of discovery by an official, and

even of death (when she extinguishes her torch to escape the official,

and proceeds in the dark), she reaches her husband and the other

Decembrist exiles, and delivers to them the letters from their friends,

which she has with her. The poem is most beautiful and affecting.

A third very famous poem is "Who in Russia Finds Life Good?" Seven

peasants meet by chance on the highway, and fall into a dispute on that

theme. One says, "the landed proprietor"; another, "the official"; a

third, "the priest." Others say, respectively, "the fat-bellied

merchant," "the minister of the empire," "the Tzar." All of the peasants

had started out at midday upon important errands, but they argue hotly

until sundown, walking all the while, and do not notice even that until

an old woman happens along and asks them, "Where are they bound by

night?" On glancing about them, the peasants perceive that they are

thirty versts from home, and they are too fatigued to undertake the

return journey at once. They throw the blame on the Forest-Fiend, seat

themselves in the woods, and light a fire. One man goes off to procure

liquor, another for food, and as they consume these, they begin the

discussion all over again in such vehement wise that all the beasts and

birds of the forest are affrighted. At last Pakhóm, one of the peasants,

catches a young bird in his hand and says that, frail and tiny as it is,

it is more mighty than a peasant man, because its wings permit it to fly

whithersoever it wishes; and he beseeches the birdling to give them its

wings, so that they may fly all over the empire and observe and inquire,

"Who dwelleth happily and at ease in Russia?" Surely, Iván remarks,

wings are not needed; if only they could be sure of half a pud (eighteen

pounds) of bread a day (meaning the sour, black rye bread), they could

"measure off Mother Russia" with their own legs. Another of the peasants

stipulates for a vedró (two and three-quarters gallons) of vódka;

another for cucumbers every morning; another for a wooden can of kvas

(small beer, brewed from the rye bread, or meal) every noon; another for

a teapot of boiling tea every evening. A peewit circles above them in

the air, listening, then alights beside their bonfire, chirps, and

addresses them in human speech. She promises that if they will release

her offspring she will give them all they desire. The compact is made;

she tells them where to go in the forest and dig up a coffer containing

a "self-setting table-cloth," which will carry them all over the country

at their behest. They demand, in addition, that they shall be fed and

clothed; granted. They get the carpet; their daily supply of food

appears from its folds, on demand (they may double, but not treble the

allowance), and they vow not to return to their families until they

shall have succeeded in their quest of a happy man in Russia. Their

first encounter is with a priest, who in response to their questions,

asks if happiness does not consist in "peace, wealth, and honor?" He

then describes his life, and demonstrates that a priest gets none of

these things. As they proceed on their way, they meet and interrogate

people from all ranks and classes. This affords the poet an opportunity

for a series of pictures from Russian life, replete with national

characteristics, stories, arguments, songs, described in varying meters.

The whole forms a splendid and profoundly interesting national

picture-gallery.

The movements of the '40's and the '60's brought to the front several

poets who sprang directly from the people. On the borderland of the two

epochs stands the most renowned of Little Russian poets, Tarás

Grigórievitch Shevtchénko (1814-1861). He was the contemporary of

Koltzóff and Byelínsky, rather than of Nekrásoff; nevertheless, he may

be regarded as a representative of the latter's epoch, in virtue of the

contents and the spirit of his poetry.

His history is both interesting and remarkable. He was the son of a

serf, in the government of Kíeff. When he was eight years old his mother

died, and his father married again. His stepmother favored her own

children, and to constant quarrels between the two broods, incessant

altercation between the parents was added. At the age of eleven, when

his father died, he began a roving life. He ran away from a couple of

ecclesiastics who had undertaken to teach him to read and write (after

having acquired the rudiments of those arts), and made numerous

ineffectual attempts to obtain instruction in painting from various

wretched daubers of holy pictures, having been addicted, from his

earliest childhood, to scrawling over the walls of the house and the

fences with charcoal drawings. He was obliged to turn shepherd. In 1827

he was taken on as one of his master's household servants, and sent to

Vílna, where at first he served as scullion. Later on, it was decided

that he "was fitted to become the household painter."

But he served at first as personal attendant on his master and handed

him a light for his pipe, until his master caught him one night drawing

a likeness of Kazák Plátoff, whereupon he pulled Shevtchénko's ears,

cuffed him, ordered him to be flogged, but simultaneously acquired the

conviction that the lad might be converted into a painter to the

establishment. So Shevtchénko began to study under a Vílna artist, and a

year and a half later, by the advice of his teacher, who recognized his

talent, the master sent the lad to a portrait-painter in Warsaw. In 1831

he was sent to his master in St. Petersburg on foot by the regular

police "stages" (_étape_), arriving almost shoeless, and acted as lackey

in the establishment. At last his master granted his urgent request, and

apprenticed him for four years to an instructor in painting. Here

Shevtchénko made acquaintance with the artist I. M. Sóshenko, and

through him with an author of some little note, who took pity on the

young fellow's sorry plight, and began to invite him to his house, give

him books to read, furnish him with various useful suggestions, and with

money. Thus did Shevtchénko come to know the Russian and western

classical authors, history, and so forth. Through Sóshenko's agency, the

aid of the secretary of the Academy of Arts was invoked to rescue the

young man from his artist master's intolerable oppression, and his

literary friend introduced Shevtchénko to Zhukóvsky, who took an ardent

interest in the fate of the talented young fellow. They speedily began

operations to free Shevtchénko from serfdom; and the manner in which it

was finally affected is curious. A certain general ordered a portrait of

himself from Shevtchénko for which he was to pay fifty rubles. The

general was not pleased with the portrait, and refused to accept it. The

offended artist painted the general's beard over with a froth of

shaving-soap, and sold the picture for a song to the barber who was in

the habit of shaving the general, and he used it as a sign. The general

flew into a rage, immediately purchased the portrait, and with a view to

revenging himself on the artist, he offered the latter's master a huge

sum for him. Shevtchénko was so panic-stricken at the prospect of what

awaited him, that he fled for aid to the artist Briulóff, entreating the

latter to save him. Briulóff told Zhukóvsky, and Zhukóvsky repeated the

story to the Empress Alexándra Feódorovna, wife of Nicholas I.

Shevtchénko's master was ordered to stop the sale. The Empress then

commanded Briulóff to complete a portrait of her which he had begun, and

she put it up as the prize in a lottery among the members of the

imperial family for the sum of ten thousand rubles--the price offered

for Shevtchénko by the enraged general. Shevtchénko thus received his

freedom in May, 1838, and immediately began to attend the classes in the

Academy of Arts, and speedily became one of Briulóff's favorite pupils

and comrades.

In 1840 he published his "Kobzár"[29] which made an impression in

Little Russia. In 1842 he began the publication of his famous poem, "The

Haïdamák" (A Warrior of Ancient Ukraína). In 1843 he was arrested and

sent back to Little Russia, where he lived until 1847, and during this

period his talent bore its fairest blossoms, and his best works

appeared: "The Banquet of the Dead," "The Hired Woman," "The Dream,"

"The Prisoner," "Iván Gus" (the goose), "The Cold Hillside," and so

forth. His literary fame reached its zenith, and brought with it the

friendship of the best intellectual forces of southern Russia, and with

the aid of Princess Ryépnin (cousin to the minister of public education)

and Count Uvároff, he obtained the post of drawing-master in Kíeff

University. But in 1847 some one overheard and distorted a conversation

in which Shevtchénko and several friends had taken part, the result

being that all were arrested, while Shevtchénko, after being taken to

St. Petersburg, was sent to the Orenburg government in the far

southeast, to serve as a common soldier in the ranks, and was forbidden

to paint or to write. There he remained for ten years, when he returned

to the capital, and settled down at the Academy of Arts, where he was

granted a studio, in accordance with his right as an academician. He

never produced anything of note in the literary line thereafter, and the

last three years of his life were chiefly devoted to releasing his

relatives from serfdom, and furnishing them with land for cottages,

which object he accomplished a few months before the general

emancipation of the serfs.

In the work of Shevtchénko it is possible to follow the curious

transformation from what may be called the collective-folk creative

power, to the purely individual. His figures, subjects, and the quiet,

heart-rending sadness of his poems are precisely the same as those to

be met with in any Little Russian folk-ballad. The majority of his poems

are not inventions, but are taken directly from popular legends and

traditions, and the personality of the poet vanishes in a flood of

purely popular poetry. Nevertheless, he is not a slavish copyist of this

folk-poetry. The language of his compositions is strikingly simple, and

comprehensible not only to native-born Little Russians, but also to

those who are not acquainted with the dialect of that region. Most

writers who have employed the Little Russian dialect are difficult of

comprehension not only to educated Great Russians, but also to ordinary

Little Russians, because their language is artificial, intermingled with

a mass of new words and expressions invented in educated circles of

Little Russia. But Shevtchénko wrote in the living tongue of the

Ukraína, in which its people talk and sing. His best work, after he came

under the influence of Zhukóvsky, is "The Hired Woman." This is the

story of a girl who is betrayed, then forced by outsiders to abandon her

child, after which she hires herself out as servant to the people at

whose door she has left the child, and so is enabled to rear it, only

revealing the secret to her child on her deathbed.

The sufferings of the people in serfdom form the subject of another

series of his poems, and in this category, "Katerína" is the best worked

out and most dramatic of his productions. A third category comprises the

historical ballads, in which he celebrates the days of kazák freedom.

This class comprises two long poems, "The Haïdamák" (The Kazák Warrior

of Ancient Ukraína) and "Gamáliya," besides a number of short

rhapsodies. In these poems the writer has expressed his political and

social views, and they are particularly prized by his fellow-landsmen of

the Ukraína. The fourth (or, in the order of their appearance, the

first) class of Shevtchénko's poems consists of ballads in the

folk-style, and sentimental, romantic pieces, which have no political or

social tendencies. Such are the ballads, "The Cause," "The Drowned

Woman," "The Water Nymph," "The Poplar Tree," which he wrote in St.

Petersburg on scraps of paper in the summer garden.

Of less talent and importance was a fellow-citizen of Koltzóff, Iván

Sávitch Nikítin (1824-1861). Perhaps the most interesting thing about

him is that Count L. N. Tolstóy took a lively interest in this gifted

plebeian, and offered to bear the cost of publishing his poems,

regarding him as a new Koltzóff. Count Tolstóy has since arrived at the

conclusion that all poetry is futile and an unnecessary waste of time,

as the same ideas can be much better expressed in prose, and with less

labor to both writer and reader.

The poet from the educated classes of society who deserves the most

attention as a member of Nekrásoff's camp, is Alexyéi Nikoláevitch

Pleshtchéeff (1825-1893), the descendant of an ancient family of the

nobility. In 1849 he was arrested for suspected implication in what is

known as "The Petrashévsky Affair" (from the name of the leader), and

imprisoned in the Peter-Paul Fortress. Together with Dostoévsky and

nineteen others he was condemned to be shot, but all the prisoners were

pardoned by the Emperor (the charge was high treason) at the last

moment, and after spending nine months in the fortress, Pleshtchéeff was

sent to serve as a common soldier in the troops of the line, in the

Orenburg government, with the loss of all his civil rights. There he

remained nine years, taking part in several border campaigns, and rising

to the rank of ensign, after which he entered the civil service. In 1859

he was allowed to return to Moscow, whence he removed to St. Petersburg

in 1872.[30]

The principal writers of satirical verse during this period were:

Alexyéi Mikháilovitch Zhemtchúzhnikoff (1822), V. S. Kúrotchkin

(1831-1875), who founded the extremely popular journal "The Spark," in

1859, and D. D. Mináeff (1835-1889).

QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW

1. What had been the progress of the drama in Russia up to the

time of Ostróvsky?

2. How did "It Is All in the Family" make its appearance, and

with what result?

3. What especial value has the play "The Thunderstorm"?

4. What variety of subjects are treated in Ostróvsky's plays?

5. Why does his work rank so high?

6. What plays by Turgéneff hold the next place to Ostróvsky's?

7. What are the best historical novels in the Russian language?

8. What was the character of the poetry of this period?

9. What ballads by Polónsky have a national reputation?

10. Give the chief events in the life of Nekrásoff.

11. What hostile criticism have his works received?

12. What may be said in his favor?

13. What is the story of "Red-Nosed Frost"?

14. What pictures of Russian society are given in "Russian

Women"?

15. How is the poet's wide knowledge shown in his poem "Who in

Russia Finds Life Good"?

16. Give an account of the eventful career of Shevtchénko.

17. What are the noteworthy features of his poetry?

BIBLIOGRAPHY

_The Thunderstorm._ Ostróvsky.

_Prince Serébryany_; _The Death of Iván the Terrible_. Count

Alexéi K. Tolstóy.

_Red-Nosed Frost._ N. A. Nekrásoff.

FOOTNOTES:

[26] I had the pleasure of knowing Polónsky and his wife, a gifted

sculptress. He was a great favorite in society, for his charming

personality, as well as for his poetry. He served on the Committee of

Foreign Censure.

[27] I permit myself to quote from my "Russian Rambles" Count L. N.

Tolstóy's opinion, in which he succinctly expressed to me the view of

this second party: "There are three requisites which go to make a

perfect writer. First, he must have something worth saying. Second, he

must have a proper way of saying it. Third, he must have sincerity.

Dickens had all three of these qualities. Thackeray had not much to say;

he had a great deal of art in saying it, but he had not enough

sincerity. Dostoévsky possessed all three requisites. Nekrásoff knew

well how to express himself, but he did not possess the first quality;

he forced himself to say something--whatever would catch the public at

the moment, of which he was a very keen judge, as he wrote to suit the

popular taste, believing not at all in what he said. He had none of the

third requisite."

[28] A verst is about two-thirds of a mile.

[29] The player on the Little Russian twelve-stringed guitar, the Kóbza,

literally translated.

[30] I saw him, a majestic old man, surrounded by an adoring throng of

students and young men, at one of the requiem services for M. E.

Saltykóff (Shtchedrín), in the Kazán Cathedral, St. Petersburg, in

April, 1889.

CHAPTER XI

DOSTOÉVSKY

All the writers of the '40's of the nineteenth century had their

individual peculiarities. But in this respect, Feódor Mikháilovitch

Dostoévsky (1821-1880) was even more sharply separated from all the rest

by his characteristics, which almost removed him from the ranks of the

writers of the epoch, and gave him a special place in literature.

The chief cause of this distinction lies in the fact that while most of

the other writers sprang from the country regions, being members of the

landed gentry class, Dostoévsky represents the plebeian, toiling class

of society, a nervously choleric son of the town; and in the second

place, while the majority of them were well-to-do, Dostoévsky alone in

the company belonged to the class of educated strugglers with poverty,

which had recently made its reappearance.

His father was staff physician in the Márya Hospital in Moscow, and he

was the second son in a family of seven children. The whole family lived

in two rooms, an ante-room and kitchen, which comprised the quarters

allotted to the post by the government. Here strictly religious and

patriarchal customs reigned, mitigated by the high cultivation of the

head of the family.

In 1837 Feódor Mikháilovitch and his elder brother were taken to St.

Petersburg by their father to be placed in the School for Engineers,

but the elder did not succeed in entering, on account of feeble health.

Dostoévsky had already evinced an inclination for literature, and

naturally he was not very diligent in his studies of the dry, applied

sciences taught in the school. But he found time to make acquaintance

with the best works of Russian, English, French, and German classical

authors. In 1843 he completed his course, and was appointed to actual

service in the draughting department of the St. Petersburg engineer

corps.

With his salary and the money sent to him by his guardian (his father

being dead), he had about five thousand rubles a year, but as he was

extremely improvident, bohemian, and luxurious in his tastes, he could

never make both ends meet. He was still more straitened in his finances

when, in 1844, he resigned from the service, which was repugnant to him,

and utterly at variance with his literary proclivities, and was obliged

to resort to making translations. In May, 1844, he completed his first

romance, "Poor People," and sent it to Nekrásoff by his school-friend

Grigoróvitch. In his "Diary" Dostoévsky has narrated the manner of its

reception by Nekrásoff (who was preparing to publish a collection), and

by Byelínsky, to whom the latter gave it. Grigoróvitch and Nekrásoff sat

up all night to read it, so fascinated were they, and then hastened

straight to communicate their rapture to the author. Nekrásoff then gave

the manuscript to Byelínsky with the exclamation, "A new Gógol has made

his appearance!" to which Byelínsky sternly replied, "Gógols spring up

like mushrooms with you." But when he had read the romance, he cried

out, with emotion, "Bring him, bring him to me!"

Even before the romance made its appearance in print (early in 1846),

Dostoévsky had won a flattering literary reputation. The young author's

head was fairly turned with his swift success, and he grew arrogant, the

result of which was that he soon quarreled with Byelínsky, Nekrásoff,

and their whole circle, and published his later writings (with one

exception) elsewhere than in "The Contemporary." His coolness towards

the circle of "The Contemporary" was not a little aided by the

difference in opinions which began to make themselves felt. Dostoévsky

was carried away by the political and social ideas which reigned in that

circle, but at the same time he obstinately upheld his own religious

views. The result of this was, that the members of the circle began to

regard him as behind the times. He became more and more interested in

socialism, and soon went to live with his new friends in quarters where

the principles of association ruled. He then entered the Dúroff circle

of Fourierists, the most moderate of all the Petrashévsky circles, which

a good authority declares to have entertained no purely revolutionary

ideas whatever. They rebelled against the maintenance of the strict

censorship then in force, serfdom, and administrative abuses, but paid

little attention to the question of a change in the form of government,

and attributed no importance to political upheavals. Dostoévsky himself

was, in general, very far from cherishing any revolutionary designs; he

enthusiastically declaimed Púshkin's verses about slavery falling "at

the wave of the Tzar's hand," and insisted that no socialistic theories

had the slightest importance for Russians, since in the commune, and the

working unions (_artél_), and mutual guarantee system there had long

existed in their land more solid and normal foundations than all the

dreams of Saint Simon and his school, and that life in a community and

phalanstery seemed to him more terrible and repulsive than that of any

galley-slave.

Notwithstanding this, in May, 1849, Dostoévsky was arrested, along with

the other followers of Petrashévsky, confined in the fortress, and

condemned by court-martial on the charge of having "taken part in

discussions concerning the severity of the censorship, and in one

assembly, in March, 1849, had read a letter from Byelínsky to Gógol,

received from Pleshtchéeff in Moscow, and had then read it aloud in the

assemblies at Dúroff's, and had given copies of it to Mombelli to copy.

In the assemblies at Dúroff's he had listened to the reading of

articles, knew of the intention to set up a printing-press, and at

Spyéshneff's had listened to the reading of 'A Soldier's Conversation.'"

All the Petrashévskyians were condemned to be shot, and the sentence was

read to them on January 3, 1850, on the scaffold, where they stood

stripped, in the freezing cold, for twenty minutes, in momentary

expectation of their execution. But the death sentence was mitigated in

different degrees by the Emperor, Dostoévsky's sentence being commuted

to exile with hard labor for four years, and then service as a common

soldier in the ranks. He was dispatched to Siberia two days later, which

was on Christmas Eve, according to the Russian reckoning.

The wives of the Decembrists (the men exiled for revolutionary plots in

1825, at the accession to the throne of the Emperor Nicholas I.),

visited the Petrashévskyians in prison at Tobólsk and gave Dostoévsky a

copy of the Gospels. No other book made its way within the prison walls,

and after reading nothing else for the next three years, Dostoévsky,

according to his own words, "forced by necessity to read the Bible only,

was enabled more clearly and profoundly to grasp the meaning of

Christianity." In his "Notes from a Dead House" he has described in

detail his life in the prison at Omsk, and all his impressions. Prison

life produced an extremely crushing and unfavorable impression on him.

He was brought into close contact with the common people, was enabled to

study them, but he also became thoroughly imbued with that spirit of

mysticism which is peculiar to ignorant and illiterate people. His own

view of the universe was that of childlike faith, and prison life

strengthened this view by leading him to see in it the foundation of the

national spirit and the national life. During the last year of his

prison life, under a milder commandant, he was able to renew his

relations with former schoolmates and friends in the town, and through

them obtain more money, write home, and even come into possession of

books.

But his health was much affected, his nerves having been weak from

childhood, and already so shattered that, in 1846, he was on the verge

of insanity. Even at that time he had begun to have attacks by night of

that "mystical terror," which he has described in detail in "Humiliated

and Insulted," and he also had occasional epileptic fits. In Siberia

epilepsy developed to such a point that it was no longer possible to

entertain any doubt as to the character of his malady.

On leaving prison, in 1854, and becoming a soldier, Dostoévsky was much

better off. He was soon promoted to the rank of ensign, wrote a little,

planned "Notes from a Dead House," and in 1856 married. At last, after

prolonged efforts, he received permission to return to European Russia,

in July, 1859, and settled in Tver. In the winter of that year, his

rights, among them that of living in the capital, were restored to him,

and in 1861 he and his elder brother began to publish a journal called

"The Times." The first number contained the first installment of

"Humiliated and Insulted," and simultaneously, during 1861-1862, "Notes

from a Dead House" appeared there also, in addition to critical literary

articles from his pen. This and other editorial and journalistic

ventures met with varying success, and he suffered many reverses of

fortune. In 1865-1866 he wrote his masterpiece, "Crime and Punishment."

His first wife having died, he married his stenographer, in 1867, and

traveled in western Europe for the next four years, in the course of

which he wrote his romances: "The Idiot" (1868), "The Eternal Husband"

(1870), and "Devils" (1871-72). After his return to Russia he wrote

(1875) "The Stripling," and (1876) began the publication of "The Diary

of a Writer," which was in the nature of a monthly journal, made up of

his own articles, chiefly of a political character, and bearing on the

Serbo-Turkish War. But it also contained literary and autobiographical

articles, and had an enormous success, despite the irregularity of its

appearance.

In June, 1880, he delivered a speech before the Society of Lovers of

Russian Literature, which won him such popularity as he had never before

enjoyed, and resulted in a tremendous ovation, on the part of the

public, at the unveiling of the monument to Púshkin. He was besieged

with letters and visits; people came to him incessantly from all parts

of St. Petersburg and of Russia, with expressions of admiration,

requests for aid, questions, complaints against others, and expressions

of opinions hostile to him personally. In the last half of 1880 he

finished "The Karamázoff Brothers." His funeral, on February 15, 1881,

was very remarkable; the occasion of an unprecedented "manifestation,"

which those who took part in it are still proud of recalling. Forty-two

deputations bearing wreaths and an innumerable mass of people walked

miles after his coffin to the cemetery of the Alexander Névsky

Monastery.

Under the various influences to which Dostoévsky was subjected, he

eventually became what is known in Russia as "a native-soiler," in

literature--the leader, in fact, of that semi-Slavyánophil, semi-Western

school--and towards the end of his life was converted into a genuine

Slavophil and mystic. In this conversion, as well as in the mystical

theories which he preached in his "Diary," and afterwards in his

romances, beginning with "Crime and Punishment," Dostoévsky has

something in common with Count L. N. Tolstóy. Both writers were

disenchanted as to European progress, admitted the mental and moral

insolvency of educated Russian society, and fell into despair, from

which the only escape, so it seemed to them, was becoming imbued with

the lively faith of the common people, and both authors regarded this

faith as the sole means of getting into real communion with the people.

Then, becoming more and more imbued with the spirit of the Christian

doctrine, both arrived at utter rejection of material improvement of the

general welfare; Count Tolstóy came out with a theory of non-resistance

to evil by force, and Dostoévsky with a theory of moral elevation and

purification by means of suffering, which in essence are identical; for

in what manner does non-resistance to evil manifest itself, if not in

unmurmuring endurance of the sufferings caused by evil?

Nevertheless, a profound difference exists between Count Tolstóy and

Dostoévsky. In the former we see an absence of conservatism and devotion

to tradition. His attitude towards all doctrines is that of

unconditional freedom of thought, and subjecting them to daring

criticism, he chooses from among them only that which is in harmony with

the inspirations of his own reason. He is a genuine individualist, to

his very marrow. By the masses of the common people, he does not mean

the Russian nation only, but all the toilers and producers of the earth,

without regard to nationality; while by the faith which he seeks among

those toilers, he does not mean any fixed religious belief, but faith in

the reasonableness and advantageousness of life, and of everything which

exists, placing this faith in dependence upon brisk, healthy toil.

Dostoévsky, on the contrary, is a communist, or socialist. He cares

nothing for freedom and the self-perfection of the individual. The

individual, according to his teaching, should merely submit, and

resignedly offer itself up as a sacrifice to society, for the sake of

fulfilling that mission which Russia is foreordained, as God's chosen

nation, to accomplish. This mission consists in the realization upon

earth of true Christianity in orthodoxy,[31] to which the Russian people

remain faithful and devoted; union with the common people is to be

accomplished in that manner alone; like the common people, with the same

boundless faith and devotion, orthodoxy must be professed, for in it

alone lies all salvation, not only for the world as a whole, but for

every individual.

The character of Dostoévsky's works is determined by the fact that he

was a child of the town. In their form they possess none of that elegant

regularity, of that classical finish and clear-cut outline, which

impress us in the works of Turgéneff and Gontcharóff. On the contrary,

they surprise us by their awkwardness, their prolixity, their lack of

severe finish, which requires abundant leisure. It is evident that they

were written in haste, by a man who was eternally in want, embarrassed

with debts, and incapable of making the two ends meet financially. At

the same time one is struck by the entire absence in Dostoévsky's works

of those artistic elements in which the works of the other authors of

the '40's are rich. They contain no enchanting pictures of nature, no

soul-stirring love scenes, meetings, kisses, the bewitching feminine

types which turn the reader's head, for which Turgéneff and Tolstóy are

famous. Dostoévsky even ridicules Turgéneff for his feminine portraits,

in "Devils," under the character of the writer Karmazínoff, with his

passion for depicting kisses not as they take place with all mankind,

but with gorse or some such weed growing round about, which one must

look up in a botany, while the sky must not fail to be of a purplish

hue, which, of course, no mortal ever beheld, and the tree under which

the interesting pair is seated must infallibly be orange-colored, and so

forth.

Dostoévsky's subjects also present a sharp difference from those of his

contemporaries, whose subjects are characterized by extreme simplicity

and absence of complication, only a few actors being brought on the

stage--not more than two, three, or four--and the entire plot being, as

a rule, confined to the rivalry of two lovers, and to the question upon

which of them the heroine will bestow her love. It is quite the contrary

with Dostoévsky. His plots are complicated and entangled, he introduces

a throng of acting personages. In reading his romances, one seems to

hear the roar of the crowd, and the life of a town is unrolled before

one, with all its bustle, its incessantly complicated and unexpected

encounters, and relations of people one to another. Like a true child of

the town, Dostoévsky does not confine himself to fashionable

drawing-rooms, or to the educated classes; he is fond of introducing the

reader to the dens of poverty and vice, which he invests, also, with

their own peculiar, gloomy poetry. In his pictures of low life, he more

resembles Dickens than the followers of Georges Sand of his day.

But the most essential quality of Dostoévsky's creative art is the

psychical analysis, which occupies the foreground in the majority of his

romances, and constitutes their chief power and value. A well-known

alienist doctor, who has examined these romances from a scientific point

of view, declares himself amazed by the scientific accuracy wherewith

Dostoévsky has depicted the mentally afflicted. In his opinion, about

one-fourth of this author's characters are more or less afflicted in

this manner, some romances containing as many as three who are not

normal, in one way or another. This doctor demonstrates that Dostoévsky

was a great psychopathologist, and that, with his artistic insight, he

anticipated even exact science. And much that he has written will

certainly be incorporated in psychological text-books. It is

superfluous, after such competent testimony, to insist upon the

life-likeness and the truth to nature of his portraits. The effect of

his books on a reader is overwhelming, even stunning and

nerve-shattering.

One further point is to be noted: that notwithstanding the immense

number of characters presented to the reader by Dostoévsky, they all

belong to a very limited number of types, which are repeated, with

slight variations, in all his romances. Thus, in conformity with the

doctrine of the "native-soilers," he places at the foundation of the

majority of his works one of the two following types: (1) The gentle

type of the man overflowing with tender affection of utter

self-sacrifice, ready to forgive everything, to justify everything, to

bear himself compassionately towards the treachery of the girl he loves,

and to go on loving her, even to the point of removing the obstacles to

her marriage with another man, and so forth. Such is the hero of "Crime

and Punishment"; such is Prince Mýshkinh in "The Idiot," and so on; (2)

The rapacious type, the type of the egoist, brimming over with passion,

knowing no bounds to his desires, and restrained by no laws, either

human or divine. Such are: Stavrógin in "Devils," Dmítry Karamázoff

("The Karamázoff Brothers"), and so forth. His women also can be divided

into two similar, contrasting types; on the one hand, the gentle--the

type of the woman who possesses a heart which is tender and loving to

self-abnegation, like Nelly and Natásha, in "Humiliated and Insulted";

Raskólnikoff's mother and Sónya, in "Crime and Punishment"; Nétotchka

Nezvánoff, in "The Stripling." On the other hand, there are the

rapacious types of capricious, charming women who are tyrannical to the

point of cruelty, like Polína, in "The Gambler," Nastásya Filíppovna in

"The Idiot," Grúshenka and Katerína Ivánovna in "The Karamázoff

Brothers," and Varvára Petróvna, in "Devils."

The reactionary tendency made its appearance in Dostoévsky almost

contemporaneously with its appearance in Turgéneff and Gontcharóff,

unhappily. The first romance in which it presented itself was "Crime and

Punishment," the masterpiece in which his talent attained its zenith.

This work, in virtue of its psychical and psychological analyses,

deserves to rank among the greatest and best monuments of European

literary art in the nineteenth century. Unfortunately, it produced a

strange impression on all reasonable people, because of the fact that

the author suddenly makes the crime of his hero, Raskólnikoff, dependent

upon the influence of new ideas, as though they justified crimes,

committed with good objects. No less surprising is the manner in which

the romance winds up with the moral regeneration of Raskólnikoff under

the influence of exile with hard labor.

Dostoévsky, to be fully appreciated, requires--perhaps more than most

writers--to be read at length. But the following brief extract will

afford a glimpse of his manner. The extract is from the "Notes from a

Dead House." Sushíloff was a prisoner who had been sent to Siberia

merely for colonization, for some trifling breach of the laws. During a

fit of intoxication he had been persuaded by a prisoner named Mikháiloff

to exchange names and punishments, in consideration of a new red shirt

and one ruble in cash. Such exchanges were by no means rare, but the

prisoner to whose disadvantage the bargain redounded, generally demanded

scores of rubles; hence, every one ridiculed Sushíloff for the cheap

rate at which he had sold his light sentence. Had he been able to

return the ruble (which he had immediately spent for liquor), he might

have bought back his name, but the prisoners' artél, or guild, always

insisted upon the strict fulfilment of such bargains in default of the

money being refunded; and if the authorities suspected such exchanges,

they did not pry into them, it being immaterial to the officials (in

Siberia at least) what man served out the sentence, so long as they

could make their accounts tally. Thus much in explanation abbreviated

from Dostoévsky's statement.

"Sushíloff and I lived a long time together, several years in

all. He gradually became greatly attached to me; I could not

help perceiving this, as I had, also, become thoroughly used to

him. But one day--I shall never forgive myself for it--he did

not comply with some request of mine, although he had just

received money from me, and I had the cruelty to say to him,

'Here you are taking my money, Sushíloff, but you don't do your

duty.' Sushíloff made no reply, but seemed suddenly to grow

melancholy. Two days elapsed. I said to myself, it cannot be

the result of my words. I knew that a certain prisoner, Antón

Vasílieff, was urgently dunning him for a petty debt. He

certainly had no money, and was afraid to ask me for any. So on

the third day, I said to him: 'Sushíloff, I think you have

wanted to ask me for money to pay Antón Vasílieff. Here it is.'

I was sitting on the sleeping-shelf at the time; Sushíloff was

standing in front of me. He seemed very much surprised that I

should offer him the money of my own accord; that I should

voluntarily remember his difficult situation, the more so as,

in his opinion, he had already, and that recently, taken

altogether too much from me in advance, so that he dared not

hope that I would give him any more. He looked at the money,

then at me, abruptly turned away and left the room. All this

greatly amazed me. I followed him and found him behind the

barracks. He was standing by the prison stockade with his face

to the fence, his head leaning against it, and propping himself

against it with his arm. 'Sushíloff, what's the matter with

you?' I asked him. He did not look at me, and to my extreme

surprise, I observed that he was on the verge of weeping. 'You

think--Alexánder Petróvitch--'[32] he began, in a broken voice,

as he endeavored to look another way, 'that I serve you--for

money--but I--I--e-e-ekh!' Here he turned again to the fence,

so that he even banged his brow against it--and how he did

begin to sob! It was the first time I had beheld a man weep in

the prison. With difficulty I comforted him, and although from

that day forth, he began to serve me more zealously than ever,

if that were possible, and to watch over me, yet I perceived,

from almost imperceptible signs, that his heart could never

pardon me for my reproach; and yet the others laughed at us,

persecuted him at every convenient opportunity, sometimes

cursed him violently--but he lived in concord and friendship

with them and never took offense. Yes, it is sometimes very

difficult to know a man thoroughly, even after long years of

acquaintance!"

Dostoévsky, in all his important novels, has much to say about religion,

and his personages all illustrate some phase of religious life. This is

nowhere more apparent than in his last novel, "The Karamázoff Brothers,"

wherein the religious note is more powerfully struck than in any of the

others. The ideal of the Orthodox Church of the East is embodied in

Father Zosím, and in his gentle disciple, Alexyéi (Alyósha) Karamázoff;

the reconciling power of redemption is again set forth over the guilty

soul of the principal hero, Dmítry Karamázoff, when he is overtaken by

chastisement for a suspected crime. The doubting element is represented

by Iván Karamázoff, who is tortured by a constant conflict with anxious

questions. In "The Legend of the Grand Inquisitor," which the author

puts into Iván's mouth, Dostoévsky's famous and characteristic power of

analysis reached its greatest height.

Belonging to no class, and famous for but one book, which does not even

count as literature, yet chronologically a member of this period, was

Nikolái Gavrílovitch Tchernyshévsky (1828-1889). After 1863 he exerted

an immense influence on the minds of young people of both sexes; and of

all the writers of the "storm and stress" period, he is the most

interesting, because, in his renowned book, "What Is to Be Done?" he

applied his theories to practical life. His success was due, not to the

practicability of his theories, to his literary qualities, to his art,

but to the fact that he contrived to unite two things, each one of

which, as a rule, is found in a writer; he simultaneously touched the

two most responsive chords in the human heart--the thirst for easy

happiness, and the imperative necessity for ascetic self-sacrifice.

Hence, he won a response from the most diametrically conflicting

natures.

"What Is to Be Done" is the story of a young girl who, with the greatest

improbability, is represented as being of the purest, most lofty

character and sentiments, yet the daughter of two phenomenally (almost

impossibly) degraded people. Instead of marrying the rich and not

otherwise undesirable man whom her parents urge on her, and who is

deeply in love with her, she runs away with her teacher, and stipulates

in advance for life in three rooms. She is only seventeen, yet she

promptly establishes a fashion-shop which thrives apace, and puts forth

numerous branches all over the capital. Her working-girls are treated

ideally and as equals, she working with them, in which lies the answer

to "What Is to Be Done?" After a while she falls in love with her

husband's dearest friend, who is described as so exactly like him that

the reader is puzzled to know wherein she descried favorable

difference, and the husband, perceiving this, makes things easy by

pretending to drown himself, but in reality going off to America.

Several years later he returns--as an American--and his ex-wife's

present husband, having become a medical celebrity, helps him to a bride

by informing her panic-stricken parents (who oppose the match, although

they are ignorant at first of any legal impediment to the union), that

she will certainly die if they do not yield. The two newly assorted

couples live in peace, happiness, and prosperity ever after. Work and

community life are the chief themes of the preachment. He was exiled to

Siberia in 1864, and on his return to Russia (when he settled in

Ástrakhan, and was permitted to resume his literary labors), he busied

himself with translations, critical articles, and the like, but was

unable to regain his former place in literature.

QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW

1. Describe the early life of Dostoévsky.

2. How were his first writings received?

3. What relation had he to the social agitations of the times?

4. Upon what charge was he exiled to Siberia?

5. How were his views affected by his prison life?

6. Give some account of his literary activities.

7. How did his views resemble those of Tolstóy?

8. How did they differ?

9. What are the characteristics of Dostoévsky's style?

10. What are the chief types portrayed in his novels?

11. What two periods of his life are represented by his "Notes

From a Dead House" and his later works?

12. Why has "What Is to Be Done?" achieved such popularity?

BIBLIOGRAPHY

_Buried Alive; or, Ten Years' Penal Servitude in Siberia._

("Notes From a Dead House.") There are also other translations

bearing various titles.

_Poor Folk._ _Crime and Punishment._ _Humbled and Insulted._

(The last two abbreviated are translated by F. Wishaw.) F. M.

Dostoévsky.

_What is to be Done? A Vital Question._ (Two translations of

the same work.) N. G. Tchernyshévsky.

FOOTNOTES:

[31] Meaning the faith of the Holy Catholic Apostolic Church of the

East. A great many Russians believe this, and that Russia's mission on

earth is a moral and spiritual one, founded upon precisely this basis.

[32] The narrator, in "Notes from a Dead House," is assumed to be a

prisoner named Alexánder Petróvitch Goryántchikoff.

CHAPTER XII

SEVENTH PERIOD: DANILÉVSKY, SALTYKÓFF, L. N. TOLSTÓY, GÓRKY, AND OTHERS.

Under the influence of the romantic movement in western Europe, in the

'30's of the nineteenth century, and in particular under the deep

impression made by Sir Walter Scott's novels, historical novels and

historical studies began to make their appearance in Russia, and in the

'50's underwent two periods of existence, which totally differed from

each other.

During the first period the romance-writers, including even Púshkin,

treated things from a governmental point of view, and dealt only with

such epochs, all more or less remote, as the censorship permitted. For

example, Zagóskin, the best known of the historical novelists, wrote

"Áskold's Grave," from the epoch of the baptism of the Russians, in the

tenth century, and "Yúry Miloslávsky," from the epoch of the Pretender,

early in the seventeenth century; while Lazhétchnikoff wrote "The

Mussulman," from the reign of Iván III., sixteenth century, and "The

Last Court Page," from the epoch of Peter the Great's wars with Sweden.

The historical facts were alluded to in a slight, passing way, or

narrated after the fashion of Karamzín, in lofty terms, with artificial

patriotic inspiration. As the authors lacked archæological learning, the

manners and accessories of the past were merely sketched in a general,

indefinite way, and often inaccurately, while the pages were chiefly

filled with the sentimental love-passages of two or three virtuous

heroes of stereotyped patterns, who were subjected to frightful

adventures, perished several times, and were resuscitated for the

purpose of marrying in ordinary fashion at the end.

In the '50's people became far too much interested in the present to pay

much heed to the past. Yet precisely at that time the two finest

historians came to the front, Sergyéi M. Soloviéff and N. I.

Kostomároff, and effected a complete revolution in historiography.

Soloviéff's great history brings the narrative down to the reign of

Katherine II. Kostomároff dealt with periods, giving a complete picture

of each one; hence each study, while complete in itself, does not of

necessity always contain the whole career of the personages who figure

in it. But both writers are essentially (despite Kostomároff's not very

successful attempts at historical novels) serious historians.

As we have already seen, the novels of the two Counts Tolstóy, "War and

Peace" and "Prince Serébryany," stand quite apart, and far above all

others.

But among the favorites of lesser rank are Grigóry Petróvitch Danilévsky

(born in 1829), whose best historical novel is "Miróvitch," though it

takes unwarrantable liberties with the personages of the epoch depicted

(that of Katherine II.) and those in the adjacent periods. Less good,

though popular, is his "Princess Tarakánoff," the history of a supposed

daughter of the Empress Elizabeth.

Half-way between the historians and the portrayers of popular life, and

in a measure belonging to both ranks, are several talented men. The most

famous of them was Pável Ivánovitch Mélnikoff (1819-1883), whose

official duties enabled him to make an exhaustive study of the "Old

Ritualists"[33] along the middle Volga.

His two novels, "In the Forests" and "On the Hills" (of the eastern and

western banks of the Volga, respectively), are utterly unlike anything

else in the language, and are immensely popular with Russians. They are

history in that they faithfully reproduce the manners and beliefs of a

whole class of the population; they are _genre_ studies of a very

valuable ethnographical character in their fidelity to nature. Long as

they are, the interest never flags for a moment, but it is not likely

that they will ever appear in an English translation. Too extensive and

intimate a knowledge of national ways and beliefs (both of the State

Church and the schismatics) are required to allow of their being popular

with the majority of foreigners who read Russian; for the non-Russian

reading foreigner an excessive amount of explanatory notes would be

required, and they would resemble treatises. But they are two of the

most delightful books of the epoch, and classics in their way. Mélnikoff

wrote, for a long time, under the pseudonym of "Andréi Petchérsky."

Nikolái Seménovitch Lyeskóff (1837-1895), who long wrote under the

pseudonym of "M. Stebnítzky," is another author famous for his portraits

of a whole class of the population, his specialty being the priestly

class. He was of noble birth, and was reared in luxury, but was orphaned

and ruined at a very early age, so that he was obliged to earn a hard

living, first in government service, then as traveler for a private

firm. This extensive traveling afforded him the opportunity of making

acquaintance with the life of all classes of the population. He began

to write in 1860, but a few incautious words, in 1862, raised a storm

against him in the liberal press, which accused him of instigating the

police to their attacks upon young people. As Count Tolstóy remarked to

me, this incident prevented Lyeskóff ever receiving the full meed of

recognition which his talent merited; a large and influential section of

the press was permanently in league against him. This, eventually, so

exasperated and embittered Lyeskóff that he really did go over to the

conservative camp, and the first result of his wrath was the romance "No

Thoroughfare," published in 1865. Its chief characters are two ideal

socialists, a man and a woman, recognized by contemporaries as the

portraits of living persons. Both are represented as finding so-called

socialists to be merely crafty nihilists. This raised another storm, and

still further embittered Lyeskóff, who expressed himself in "To the

Knife" (in the middle of the '70's), a mad production, wherein

revolutionists (or "nihilists," as they were then generally called) were

represented as condensed incarnations of the seven deadly sins. These

works had much to do with preventing Lyeskóff from taking that high

place in the public estimation which his other works (a mass of novels

and tales devoid of political tendency) and his great talent would have

otherwise assured to him. Of his large works, "The Cathedral Staff,"

with its sympathetic and life-like portraits of Archpriest Savély

Tuberósoff and his athletic Deacon Achilles, and his "Episcopal Trifles"

rank first. The latter volume, which consists of a series of pictures

setting forth the dark sides of life in the highest ecclesiastical

hierarchy, created a great sensation in the early '80's, and raised a

third storm, and the author fell into disfavor in official circles.

Perhaps the most perfect of his works is one of the shorter novels, "The

Sealed Angel," which deals with the ways and beliefs of the Old

Ritualists (though in the vicinity of Kíeff, not in Mélnikoff's

province), and is regarded as a classic, besides being a pure delight to

the initiated reader. Count L. N. Tolstóy greatly admired (he told me)

Lyeskóff's "At the End of the World," a tale of missionary effort in

Siberia, which is equally delightful in its way, though less great.

Towards the end of his career, Lyeskóff was inclined to mysticism, and

began to work over ancient religious legends, or to invent new ones in

the same style.[34]

The direct and immediate result of the democratic tendency on Russian

thought and attraction to the common people during this era was the

creation of a school of writers who devoted themselves almost

exclusively to that sphere, in addition to the contributions from

Turgéneff, Tolstóy, Dostoévsky. Among these was a well-known woman

writer, Márya Alexándrovna Markóvitch, who published her first Little

Russian Tales, in 1859, under the name of "Márko Vovtchék." She

immediately translated them into Russian, and they were printed in

the best journals of the day. I. S. Turgéneff translated one volume

into Russian (for her Little Russian language was not of the supreme

quality that characterized Shevtchénko's, which needed no translating),

and Dobroliúboff, an authoritative critic of that period, expressed

himself in the most flattering manner about them. But her fame withered

away as quickly as it had sprung up. The weak points of her tales had

been pardoned because of their political contents; in ten years they

had lost their charm, and their defects--a too superficial knowledge

of the people's life, the absence of living, authentic coloring in

portraiture, its restriction to general, stereotyped types, such as

might have been borrowed from popular tales and ballads, and excess

of sentimentality--became too apparent to be overlooked by a more

enlightened public.

The only other woman writer of this period who acquired much reputation

may be mentioned here, although she cannot be classed strictly with

portrayers of the people: Nadézhda Dmítrievna Khvóshtchinsky, whose

married name was Zaióntchkovsky, and who wrote under the pseudonym of

"V. Krestóvsky" (1825-1889). She published a great many short stories of

provincial town life, rather narrow as to their sphere of observation.

Her best work was "The Great Bear" (referring to the constellation),

which appeared in 1870-1871.[35]

When literature entered upon a fresh phase of development in the '70's

of the last century, the careful study of the people, two men headed the

movement, Glyeb Ivánovitch Uspénsky and Nikolái Nikoláevitch

Zlatovrátsky. Uspénsky (1840) took the negative and pessimistic view.

Zlatovrátsky (1845) took the positive, optimistic view.[36]

Like many authors of that period, adverse conditions hindered Uspénsky's

march to fame. Shortly after his first work, "The Manners of Rasteryáeff

Street," began to appear in "The Contemporary," that journal was

stopped. He continued it in another journal, which also was stopped

before his work was finished, and that after he had been forced to cut

out everything which gave a hint at its being a "continuation," so that

it might appear to be an independent whole. He was obliged to publish

the mangled remains in "The Woman's News," because there was hardly any

other journal then left running. After the Servian War (generally called

abroad "the Russo-Turkish War") of 1877-1878, Uspénsky abandoned the

plebeian classes to descend to "the original source" of everything--the

peasant. When he published the disenchanting result of his observations,

showing to what lengths a peasant will go for money, there was a

sensation. This was augmented by his sketch, "Hard Labor"; and a still

greater sensation ensued on the publication of his "'Tis Not a Matter of

Habit" (known in book form as "The Eccentric Master"). In "Hard Labor"

he set forth, contrary to all theoretical beliefs, that the peasants of

villages which had belonged to private landed proprietors prior to the

emancipation, were incomparably and incontestably more industrious and

moral than the peasants on the crown estates, who had always been

practically free men.[37]

Readers were still more alarmed by the deductions set forth in his "An

Eccentric Master." The hero is an educated man, Mikháil Mikháilovitch,

who betakes himself to the rural wilds with the express object of

"toiling there exactly like the rest, as an equal in morals and duties,

to sleep with the rest on the straw, to eat from one pot with them" (the

Tolstóyan theory, but in advance of him), "while the money acquired thus

by general toil was to be the property of a group of people to be

formed from peasants and from actually ruined former members of the

upper classes." But the peasants, not comprehending the master's lofty

aims, treated him as an eccentric fool, and began to rob him in all

directions, meanwhile humoring him to the top of his bent in all his

instincts of master. It ends in Mikháil Mikháilovitch becoming

thoroughly disillusioned, dejected, and taking to drink after having

expended the whole of his capital on the ungrateful peasants. This will

serve to illustrate Uspénsky's pessimistic point of view, for which he

certainly had solid grounds.

While Uspénsky never sought artistic effects in his work, and his chief

strength lay in humor, in ridicule which pitilessly destroyed all

illusions, Zlatovrátsky never indulges in a smile, and is always,

whether grieving or rejoicing, in a somewhat exalted frame of mind,

which often attains the pitch of epic pathos, so that even his style

assumes a rather poetical turn, something in the manner of hexameters.

Moreover, he is far from despising the artistic element. He established

his fame in 1874 by his first large work, "Peasant Jurors."

As Zlatovrátsky (whose father belonged to the priestly class) regards as

ideal the commune and the peasant guild (_artél_), with their

individualistic, moral ideals of union in a spirit of brotherly love and

solidarity, both in work and in the enjoyment of its products, his

pessimism is directed against the Russian educated classes, not

excepting even their very best representatives. This view he expresses

in all his works which depict the educated classes: "The Golden Heart,"

"The Wanderer," "The Kremléff Family," "The Karaváeffs," "The Hetman,"

and so forth. In these he represents educated people--the better

classes, called "intelligent" people by Russians--under the guise of

sheep who have strayed from the true fold, and the only thing about them

which he regards as a sign of life (in a few of the best of them) is

their vain efforts to identify themselves with the common people, and

thus, as it were, restore the lost paradise[38].

There are many others who have written sketches and more ambitious works

founded on a more or less intimate study and knowledge of the peasants.

On one of these we must turn our attention, briefly, as the author of

one famous and heartrending book, "The Inhabitants of Podlípovo." Feódor

Mikháilovitch Ryeshétnikoff (1841-1871) was one of three middle-class

("plebeian" is the Russian word) writers who made a name, the others

being Alexánder Ivánovitch Levítoff and Nikolái Ivánovitch Naúmoff. For

in proportion as culture spread among the masses of society, and the

center of the intellectual movement was transferred from the noble class

to the plebeian, in the literary circles towards the end of the '50's

there appeared a great flood of new forces from the lower classes. The

three writers above mentioned, as well as Uspénsky and Zlatovrátsky,

belonged to the priestly plebeian class. Ryeshétnikoff's famous

romance--rather a short story--was the outcome of his own hardships,

sufferings, and experiences. He was scantily educated, had no æsthetic

taste, wrote roughly, not always grammatically, and always in

excessively gloomy colors, yet he had the reputation of being a

passionate lover of the people, despite the fact that his picture of the

peasants in his best known work is generally regarded as almost a

caricature in its exaggerated gloom, and he enjoys wide popularity even

at the present time.

* * * * *

The spirits of people rose during the epoch of Reform (after the

Emancipation of the serfs in 1861) and the general impulse to take an

interest in political and social questions was speedily reflected in

literature by the formation of a special branch of that art, which was

known as "tendency literature," although its more accurate title would

have been "publicist literature." The peculiarity of most writers of

this class was their pessimistic skepticism. This publicist literature

was divided into three classes: democratic, moderately liberal, and

conservative.

At the head of the democratic branch stood the great writer who

constituted the pride and honor of the epoch, as the one who most

profoundly and fully reflected it, Mikháil Evgráfovitch Saltykóff

(1826-1889). He was the son of landed proprietors, of an ancient family,

with a famous name of Tatár descent. He finished his education in the

Tzárskoe Seló Lyceum, which, from the time of Púshkin on, graduated so

many notable statesmen and distinguished men. The authorities of the

Lyceum were endeavoring to exterminate the spirit of Púshkin, who had

died only the year before, and severely repressed all scribbling of

poetry, which did not in the least prevent almost every boy in the

school from trying his hand at it and dreaming of future fame. Thus

incited, Saltykóff, from the moment of his entrance, earned the ill-will

of the authorities by his passionate love of verse writing and reading,

and when he graduated, in 1844, it was in the lower half of his class,

and with one rank lower in the civil service than the upper half of the

class.

In 1847 he published (under the name of "M. Nepánoff") his first story,

"Contradictions," and in 1848 his second, "A Tangled Affair," both in

"The Annals of the Fatherland." When the strictness of the censorship

was augmented during that same year, after "the Petrashévsky affair,"

all literary men fell under suspicion. When Saltykóff asked for leave of

absence from the service to go home during the holidays, he was

commanded to produce his writings. Although these early writings

contained hardly a hint of the satirical talents which he afterwards

developed, the person to whom was intrusted the task of making a report

of them (and who was a sworn enemy to the natural school and "The Annals

of the Fatherland") gave such an alarming account of them that the Count

Tchérnysheff was frightened at having so dangerous a man in his

ministerial department. The result was, that in May, 1848, a

posting-tróïka halted in front of Saltykóff's lodgings, and the

accompanying gendarme was under orders to escort the offender off to

Vyátka on the instant.

In Saltykóff's case, as in the case of many another Russian writer,

exile not only removed him from the distracting pleasures of life at the

capital, but also laid the foundation for his future greatness. In

Vyátka, Saltykóff first served as one of the officials in the government

office, but by the autumn he was appointed the official for special

commissions immediately attached to the governor's service. He was a

valued friend in the family of the vice-governor, for whose young

daughters he wrote a "Short History of Russia," and after winning

further laurels in the service, he was allowed to return to St.

Petersburg in 1856, when he married one of the young girls, and

published his "Governmental Sketches," with the materials for which his

exile had furnished him. Two years later he was appointed vice-governor

of Ryazán, then transferred to Tver, where he acted as governor on

several occasions. In 1862 he retired from the service and devoted

himself to literature, but he returned to it a couple of years later,

and only retired definitively in 1868. These items are of interest as

showing the status of political exiles in a different light from that

usually accepted as the unvarying rule.

As we have said, Saltykóff's exile was of incalculable service to him,

in that it made him acquainted with the inward life of Russia and of the

people. This knowledge he put to unsparing use in his famous satires. In

order fully to understand his works, one must be thoroughly familiar

with the general spirit and the special ideas of the different periods

to which they refer, as well as with Russia and its life and literature

in general. Saltykóff (who wrote under the name of "Shtchedrín") was

very keen to catch the spirit of the moment, and very caustic in

portraying it, with the result that very often the names he invented for

his characters clove to whole classes of society, and have become

by-words, the mere mention of which reproduces the whole type. For

example, after the Emancipation, when the majority of landed proprietors

were compelled to give up their parasitic life on the serfs, there arose

a class of educated people who were seeking fresh fields for their easy,

parasitic existence. One of the commonest expedients, in the '70's, for

restoring shattered finances was to go to Tashként, where the cultured

classes imagined that regular gold mines awaited them. Saltykóff

instantly detected this movement, and not only branded the pioneers in

the colonization of Central Asia with the name of "Tashkéntzians" (in

"Gospodá Tashkéntzy" Messrs. Tashkéntzians), but according to his wont,

he rendered this nickname general by applying it to all cultured classes

who had nothing in their souls but an insatiable appetite. In other

works he branded other movements and classes with equal

ineffaceableness.