ANTHOLOGY OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE
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From the Earliest Period to the Present Time
BY
LEO WIENER
ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF SLAVIC LANGUAGES AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY
IN TWO PARTS
8^o with Photogravure Frontispieces
PART I.--From the Tenth Century to the Close of the Eighteenth Century
PART II.--The Nineteenth Century
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G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK LONDON
[Illustration: TURGÉNEV]
IVÁN SERGYEEVICH TURGÉNEV
“In days of doubt, in days of anguished thought over the fate of my
native land, you alone are my staff and my support, O great, mighty,
true and free Russian language! Were it not for you how could one help
despairing at the sight of what is taking place at home? But it is
unthinkable that such a language should not be given to a great nation.”
TURGÉNEV.
Anthology of Russian Literature
From the Earliest Period to the Present Time
By
Leo Wiener
Assistant Professor of Slavic Languages at Harvard University
IN TWO PARTS
PART II
The Nineteenth Century
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1903
PREFACE
Considerations of space compel me to give but a small selection of
authors from the last two decades of the nineteenth century, while some
of the writers, here omitted, of the beginning of this period have been
previously treated in the first volume of the Anthology. For the
intermediate time, the material here offered will be found sufficiently
complete, while the essays of Byelínski, Dobrolyúbov, Písarev, and
Merezhkóvski illustrate the evolution of Russian literature in the
nineteenth century, as viewed by the Russian critics themselves.
The introductory sketch is not intended as a preliminary exposition of
the Anthology, but as a résumé of all the matter contained there; it
will, therefore, be best perused after the extracts and biographical
sketches of the separate authors have become familiar to the reader. To
avoid undue annotations, literary allusions have not been mentioned in
the footnotes; they may readily be discovered by turning to the Index,
where all cross references are given.
During the preparation of the second volume, the interesting discovery
was made that not Sir John Bowring, but William D. Lewis, an American,
was the first to render Russian poetry into English; thus, the _Stanzas_
given on p. 394 of vol. i. originally appeared in the National Gazette
and Literary Register of Philadelphia, on January 31, 1821, while other
poems seem to have been translated by him much earlier.
I again wish to express my thanks to the authors and publishers by whose
permission translations are here reproduced, and to my colleague, Prof.
F. N. Robinson, who has patiently read through these pages and given me
his advice.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE v
A SKETCH OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 3
THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 27
Karamzín (1766-1826) 27
Letters of a Russian Traveller 28
Tver 28
On the French Tragedy 30
On Shakspere 31
London 32
The Churchyard 33
Poor Líza 34
History of the Russian Empire. Introduction 37
Krylóv (1768-1844) 41
The Ass and the Nightingale 41
The Quartette 43
Damian’s Fishsoup 44
The Swan, the Pike, and the Crab 45
The Lion and the Wolf 45
The Cloud 46
The Shipwrecked Sailor and the Sea 46
Izmáylov (1779-1831) 46
The Drunkard’s Vow 47
The Canary and the Nightingale 47
The Two Cats 48
Naryézhny (1780-1825) 49
The Two Iváns; or, The Passion for Litigation 49
Zhukóvski (1783-1852) 54
Svyetlána 55
The Minstrel in the Russian Camp 63
Kozlóv (1779-1840) 67
Solitude 68
Kíev 69
The Black Monk 70
Bátyushkov (1787-1855) 73
The Friend’s Shadow 73
The Dying Tasso 75
Glínka (1788-1880) 78
Moscow 79
The Search for God 80
Prince Vyázemski (1792-1878) 81
The Samovár 82
To My Three Absent Friends 84
Death Reaps the Harvest of Life 85
Rylyéev (1796-1826) 86
Voynaróvski 87
Iván Susánin 88
Griboyédov (1795-1829) 92
Intelligence Comes to Grief 93
Bestúzhev (Marlínski) (1797-1837) 102
Ammalát Bek 102
Lazhéchnikov (1794-1869) 111
The Heretic 112
Baron Délvig (1798-1831) 120
Gloomy Thoughts 120
Sang a little bird, and sang 121
Ah, you night, you little night 122
Púshkin (1799-1837) 122
The Captain’s Daughter 125
Evgéni Onyégin. Tatyána’s Letter 131
The Bakhchisaráy Fountain 133
The Poison-Tree 135
The Bird 136
The Prophet 137
The Talisman 138
The Lay of the Wise Olég 139
To the Slanderers of Russia 142
Borís Godunóv 143
Demons 147
Baratýnski (1800-1844) 149
Finland 150
Spring 151
Truth 151
Yazýkov (1803-1846) 152
The Sailor 153
The Storm 154
To the Poet 155
Lérmontov (1814-1841) 155
A Hero of Our Times. Maksím Maksímych 157
The Demon 165
Dispute 167
Alone I wander out along the road 170
The Sail 171
The Prayer 171
The Branch of Palestine 172
Remember’st thou the day when we 173
At a Ball 174
Dream 175
Koltsóv (1808-1842) 176
First Love 176
The Abundant Harvest 177
The Forest 179
Betrayed by a Bride 181
The Mower 182
Gógol (1809-1852) 185
The Dnieper 187
The Revizór 188
Dead Souls. Mrs. Koróbochka 199
Byelínski (1811-1848) 205
The Natural School 206
Aksákov (1791-1859) 216
The Family Chronicle 217
Khomyakóv (1804-1860) 229
To My Children 230
The Eagle 231
Kíev 232
Tyútchev (1803-1873) 234
Scarce cooled from midday heat 234
The Spring-Storm 235
I suffer still from anguished longing 235
Sunrise 235
Gértsen (Herzen) (1812-1870) 236
Slavophiles and Panslavism 237
Ogarév (1813-1877) 242
To Iskánder 242
Monologues 244
The Village Watchman 244
Count A. K. Tolstóy (1817-1875) 245
Prince Serébryany 246
The Death of Iván the Terrible 255
The Kurgán 257
Goncharóv (1812-1891) 259
Oblómov 260
Dobrolyúbov (1836-1861) 271
What is Oblómovism? 272
Turgénev (1818-1883) 280
Fathers and Sons 282
Poems in Prose. Nature 295
Grigoróvich (1822-1900) 296
The Fishermen 297
Polónski (1820-1898) 303
The Birds 303
Night in the Crimea 304
Love scared thee not 305
Musician Grasshopper 305
Písemski (1820-1881) 310
The Old Proprietress 311
Shenshín (Fet) (1820-1892) 319
When deeply musing in the silence of the night 320
Every feeling at night to me becomes clearer and deeper 320
Stay here awhile, ’tis good 321
Night, thou art so blest with odours sweet and strong 321
Tryst 322
Dostoévski (1821-1881) 322
Crime and Punishment 323
A. N. Máykov (1821-1898) 339
The Peris 340
Who Was He? 341
The Marble Faun 342
Three Deaths. The Death of Seneca and of Lucius 344
Nekrásov (1821-1877) 347
Red-nosed Frost 348
A Moral Man 352
Who Lives in Russia Happily 353
The Unmown Strip 359
A Mother’s Tears 360
Nikítin (1824-1861) 361
Burlák 361
The Gaffer 364
Pleshchéev (1825-1894) 365
Forward 366
My Country 367
A Legend 367
Spring 368
Ostróvski (1823-1886) 369
The Storm 369
Saltykóv (Shchedrín) (1826-1889) 379
Beyond the Border 380
Písarev (1841-1868) 385
Flowers of Harmless Humour 386
Count L. N. Tolstóy (1828- ) 391
Ánna Karénin 392
War and Peace 401
Uspénski (1840-1902) 408
The Power of the Land. Iván Petróv 409
Levítov (1842-1877) 417
Shoemaker Cock-of-the-Boots 417
Zlatovrátski (1845- ) 427
Old Shadows 428
Korolénko (1853- ) 436
The Old Bell-ringer 437
Garshín (1855-1888) 443
That Which Was Not 443
Potápenko (1856- ) 448
A Thousand Talents 448
Nádson (1862-1887) 457
My Friend, My Brother! 458
Poetry 458
Pity the stately cypress trees 459
Chékhov (1860- ) 459
In the Court-room 460
Pyeshkóv (Górki) (1871- ) 467
In the Steppe 468
Merezhkóvski (1865- ) 482
From an Essay on “Pushkin” 483
INDEX 495
A SKETCH OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE IN THE
NINETEENTH CENTURY
I
Were we to compare English literature to the starred heavens with their
galaxies and their permanent constellations of varying magnitudes,
Russian literature would represent itself to us as the darkling sky
which is now illumined by the refracted glamour of the aurora borealis,
now by the illusive flashes of shooting meteors, and now again by the
steadier brilliancy of some errant comet, by the side of which stars
seem pale and insignificant. In England, as with the other great nations
of the West, there have been temporary suspensions of literary
activities, but with every new unshrouding the ancient combinations
gleam forth in the azure vault in untarnished brilliancy, even though
new stars may obtrude themselves to view. Not thus in Russia. After
every short period of celestial fireworks the heavens are suddenly
merged into palpable darkness, to dazzle us once more with an entirely
new display of unwonted splendour.
Such, at least, is the aspect Russian literature bears in the nineteenth
century. Though Púshkin’s poetry was naturally the crowning glory of the
incipient reign of Nicholas I., it bears but a faint resemblance to the
lacrimose verses of Karamzín, or to the elegant imitations and patriotic
ebullitions of Zhukóvski of the previous two decades, and yet Karamzín
lived till Púshkin reached man’s estate, while Zhukóvski was still
active after his death. Púshkin and his contemporaries are classed
separately from Lérmontov, though but fifteen years lie between their
births and only four between their deaths. No new division is made for
poetry since the days of Lérmontov, though in the light of Nekrásov’s
realism, who began writing in 1848, the poets of pure art, Máykov,
Polónski, Tyútchev, Fet,--all of them born long before Púshkin’s
demise,--were reviled by the democratic critics and suffered more or
less complete oblivion after the fifties. Still more pathetic is the
fate of Vyázemski who, reared in the school of Karamzín, had the
misfortune of surviving to a vigorous old age: he bitterly felt the
living literary death to which he was doomed for more than a quarter of
a century.
The vicissitudes of prose have been even more varied. Karamzín had
barely established the new style of writing, based on French and English
writers, still struggling with the reactionary tendency of Shishkóv,
whose antiquated style is prominent in Griboyédov’s comedy, when a whole
school of Romanticists, beginning with Bestúzhev-Marlínski and
Lazhéchnikov, and ending with Púshkin and Lérmontov, evolved, under the
influence of Walter Scott, the Russian novel. It is a far cry from
Karamzín’s _Líza_ to Púshkin’s _Captain’s Daughter_ and to Lérmontov’s
_Hero of Our Time_. Yet, within less than a decade after the latter had
charmed the public, Gógol’s _Dead Souls_ completely obliterated the fame
of all its predecessors, and Byelínski’s dictum in regard to the Natural
School at once set the pace for an entirely new set of writers,--the
novelists of the forties. Turgénev, Goncharóv, Tolstóy, Dostoévski,
Písemski, were trained in that school and wrote their first productions
in the lifetime of Gógol. Yet after the memorial year 1848 a reaction
set in in literature as well as in affairs, and the fifties, except for
rare flashes of genius from Turgénev and Tolstóy, were one barren waste.
Of Gógol’s example and Byelínski’s injunctions hardly a trace was left.
Then, during the reign of Alexander II., the atmosphere was again
cleared, and the sixties produced that wonderful series of writings for
which Russia is mainly known abroad. And yet, in 1862, Turgénev proved
by his _Fathers and Sons_ that he was no longer in touch with Russian
reality; and a few years later, after Tolstóy had written his _War and
Peace_ and _Anna Karénin_, began Tolstóy’s rapid departure from all
reality.
In the meantime the critics, from the master Byelínski down, through
Dobrolyúbov, Písarev and Chernyshévski, reached the _ne plus ultra_ of
negation, and with them rose a new set of authors, who returned to the
lowest elements of society for their themes,--to the peasants.
Grigoróvich, Pomyalóvski, Uspénski, and a whole host of minor writers,
many of them riotous in the absence of style, produced a vast amount of
literature. Dostoévski, revelling in excruciating psychological
analyses, wrote his best work, _Crime and Punishment_, in 1865. No
wonder, then, that after such a concentrated creative period there
should follow a decade of impotence, in which the only relief was
afforded by the older writers, who occasionally lighted up the darkness
with their phosphorescence. Then, since the eighties, there has been a
November shower of novelists, Korolénko, Potápenko, Chékhov, Boborýkin,
and many, many more, and but lately a new comet has loomed up in the
horizon in the person of Maksím Górki.
The periods of distinct literary ideals are so short, their activities
so varied, that one feels tempted to treat the nineteenth century by
decades, or, to avoid embarrassing results from a purely mechanical
arrangement, to survey each field of belles-lettres, poetry, drama,
prose, in its evolution from Karamzín to the present. Neither method,
however, is free from serious objections, and it will be found more
convenient to regard the literary movement under each reign, especially
since the Decembrist revolt at the end of the rule of Alexander I., the
Crimean War under Nicholas I., and the death of Alexander II. mark real
epochs in the intellectual movements of Russia. Each reign, in its turn,
is by some historical event divisible into two parts, the first of which
coincides with aspirations and vigorous activities in literature, the
second with relaxation and indifference. Such events were the year 1812
and, in a higher measure, the year 1848.
It would, however, be incorrect to identify the various periods with the
political changes of the Empire. Though, naturally, a new impetus may be
given at the beginning of a new reign, or a great national calamity may
rouse the dormant literary powers of the people, yet the accessions to
the throne of the successive rulers, and their policies, do not
sufficiently account for the shortness of each separate period and their
apparently abrupt cessations; just as, on the other hand, the political
changes themselves are frequently only the reflex of the antecedent
literary movement with the pronounced public opinion which is based upon
it. Thus, for example, the emancipation of the serfs, with its
tremendous political and social consequences, was not merely an
arbitrary act of the monarch, but the logical culmination of the
literary propaganda, with Turgénev and his _Memoirs of a Huntsman_ at
its head, which had preceded it.
Nor can governmental policy and severity of censorship be made
accountable for the short-lived literary influence of each individual
author, for the early maturity of genius, and the wide chasm between the
author’s sunny youth and his old age in the rare instances when he has
lived beyond his forties. At forty years of age, rather earlier than
later, all Russian writers have reached their apogee. Most authors have
gained their reputation long before that, and their old age passes by
unnoticed or in mystic abstractions, and in nearly all cases out of tune
with the realities of the day. And how appallingly large is the number
of those whose career was brought to an untimely end before they had
reached forty, either by violent means, as that of Púshkin and
Lérmontov, or through insanity, as that of Garshín, or through disease,
frequently as the result of dire wretchedness in youth, or of
intemperance, as that of Byelínski, Dobrolyúbov, Písarev, Nikítin,
Nádson, and many others!
The peculiar conditions of Russian literary life are the result of the
whole social structure of the country. Here we shall find an answer to
the many perplexing questions that the foreigner must necessarily put to
himself as he contemplates, not only the peculiar course of Russian
belles-lettres and their artistic and political maxims, but also the
exaggerated relation that Russian men of letters bear to the political
life of the nation.
The literate class of the people of Russia is at the present time but a
small part of the total population, and the cultured elements of society
form but a small percentage of all those who can read and write Russian.
The conditions were, naturally, much more unfavourable for education in
the beginning of the nineteenth century. The Western civilisation which
had spread over Russia since the days of Peter the Great had not
penetrated deep: it had not touched the core of things, had not changed
much in the semi-barbaric home life of the gentry and even of the higher
nobility. Below these classes it was practically non-existent. A desire
for learning there was, and the fathers who wished to have their
children benefited by the blessings of an education had either to fall
back on foreign tutors, or to send them to the schools maintained at
Moscow and St. Petersburg. The Lyceum at Tsárskoe-Seló was the chief
seminary of learning for the sons of the nobility. The sons were just as
eager to acquire the lustre of the foreign culture, but they invariably
understood this European learning merely as a counteraction to the
brutal surroundings of old Russia. They brought with them no home
traditions of refinement, no settled political and social views. At
their schools the young men were banded together by common interests of
progress against the world without, and they felt that the future of
Russia depended upon them as an intellectual force. Had the next
generation of students been recruited exclusively from the sons of men
who had enjoyed school advantages before, there would have been a
nucleus for traditional culture. But, in the nature of the case,
ever-new elements were availing themselves of the higher schooling, and
the younger generation was as much torn out of its barren surroundings
as the young men at the beginning of the century. They, too, were the
chosen few, and upon them, they knew, devolved the task of regenerating
their country. Unfortunately they lacked not only traditions of culture
in their families, but the school had not been able to transmit any
other positive tradition than the general desire for mental training and
literary brilliancy. The ethical principle of culture was but weakly
developed, and the absence of stated maxims of life made philosophic
moderation impossible. If the older generation had been carried away by
the prevailing French taste, or by Byron’s enticing poetry, or by the
powerful Romanticism of Germany, without, however, grasping the
underlying philosophy of either, or making it its own, the youths of the
thirties sat at the feet of the German philosophers, and with the
enthusiasm of new converts transferred their tenets into their whole
view of life and letters, however, by first eliminating from it the
essence of methodical thinking, which alone would have assured any
permanency to the Russian ecstasy.
Since culture was confined chiefly to the higher classes of society,
there was slowly growing up a select circle of cultivated men who, while
not characterised by the stability of the German intellectual class or
the dignified refinement of the English aristocracy, atoned for the
superficiality of their learning by a superabundance of youthful
enthusiasm. But, before the gentry had any time to crystallise into an
intellectual class, the doors of schools were thrown open to the nation
at large, and the middle classes began at once to avail themselves of
the privilege. There was a new influx of men without a tradition, and
the work of intellectualising had to be begun once more. The vigorous
burghers had not the wealth and position of their noble predecessors to
distract their spiritual energies, and to them the pursuit of learning
was a very serious matter. But their efforts were often thwarted by a
struggle against all kinds of adversities, and they frequently succumbed
in body and mind to the effects of poverty and persecution. If the sons
of the gentry in the previous generations stood out as a protest against
their fathers, the young men now added to it a protest against the
higher classes, and, as is natural in a state of chronic protests, they
rapidly reached the negation of everything. Russian literature passes
all the stages of negation, from the criticisms of Chátski in
Griboyédov’s comedy to the conscious superiority of Bazárov in
Turgénev’s _Fathers and Sons_, and from the critiques of Byelínski to
the negation of art and literature in the acrid solvent of Písarev’s
reviews and in the latter-day literary productions of the master-artist
Tolstóy.
The salutary effects of the renewal of the intellectual classes with
every generation have been in the extreme democratisation of Russian
society, and in the frequent and varied evolution of talent,--artistic,
musical, literary, political. But the democracy, lacking the moderation
of established procedure, too often loses itself in mazes of inactive
speculation, and, lacking historic perspective and philosophic
precision, is vacillating in its ultimate ends; while the same causes
militate against a concentration of talent, and rather disperse its
strength and nullify its effects. Hence the apt classification of the
heroes of Russian novels as so many Oblómovs, which Dobrolyúbov has made
in his review of Goncharóv’s famous work. It is, indeed, a notable fact
that Russia has not produced a single philosopher worthy of the name,
and a late attempt at discovering _The Philosophic Tendencies in Russian
Poetry_ has resulted in a meagre work which, though interesting for the
poets it harbours, is conspicuous for the absence of that philosophy
which it sets out to find.
Philosophy can have free sway only where there is calm reflection; and
reflection lies at the base of actions only where ideals of life are
formed at a mature age. Unfortunately for Russia, young men have stood
behind the cultural movements, and by “young men” are in Russia
understood those who have not yet reached the age of thirty. In the
Anglo-American civilisation men between thirty and fifty are supposed to
be young men, men of action, which view, having its origin in the
conservative spirit of Anglo-Saxon institutions, more than anything else
assures a cautious progress. In Russia, we have seen, the task of
fostering progress has fallen on school-lads and university students.
The consequence has been disastrous. Russian youths have tried to carry
high the banner of progress, and one cannot help but admire the courage
with which they have upheld their cause, the enthusiasm with which they
have advocated their tenets, the sacrifices which they have ever been
ready to bring. At the same time it must be evident that their courage
has frequently been ill-advised, their enthusiasm brittle because not
tempered by chill experience, and their sacrifices vain and useless.
There has been no bond of sympathy between the sons and their fathers,
and the enthusiasm of one generation has not been bequeathed in its turn
to the next.
As long as effervescent youth has lasted, Russians have not hesitated to
throw their whole souls into their cause. In Púshkin’s days they
surpassed Byron in the recklessness of their youthful excesses, and
would-be Manfreds could be met with in the flesh. As Slavophiles they
were willing to forego the fruits of Western civilisation, and gloried
in their unwieldy native costume. As Soilers and Populists they
renounced the society of their likes, and buried themselves in the
deadening wildernesses of distant villages. Even if the Government had
not nipped their efforts by exile and prisons, their fate could not
later in life have been happy. When their first fervour had evaporated,
and they were brought face to face with actualities, the discrepancy
between theories and practices of necessity produced a revulsion. The
stout of heart maintained their cherished hopes, but their minds became
variously affected by quiet sorrow, melancholy, despair. The men of
coarser texture turned liberal opportunists, temporisers, or downright
deniers of all their previous thoughts and acts. The Government absorbed
these as officials in various capacities, and thus the better elements,
through their abhorrence of compromise, have generally been lost to the
State.
The same disenchantment is noticeable in the life of every man of
letters. Literature has been in Russia the field in which all the
battles of progress have been fought. As there does not exist a
representative government, where political opinions may struggle for
recognition, and as there cannot exist a public opinion based on
tradition and class interests, literature alone appears as the medium
for advancing social and political ideas; and since scientific treatises
reach but a vanishing proportion of the nation, belles-lettres proper
have in Russia become the means for inculcating and propagating truths.
In the beginning of the nineteenth century this was not yet so apparent,
and literature for art’s sake could hold its own. But with the advancing
democratisation of society, literature gathered ever more around camps
with definite ideas, and literary art receded more and more and lived
out its day in oblivion. The individual authors have always been
conscious of their high calling, and in their youth have devoted
themselves with fervour to their tasks; but in middle life they
generally have been chilled by the actual conditions of life, and have
fallen a prey to disappointment, the effects of which were mysticism,
renunciation, opportunism, as the case might be.
Thus, also, there has followed a period of comparative stagnation and
even retrogression after every decade of concentrated production. The
men whom common interests had brought together in literary emulation had
passed their perihelion, and another generation had not yet reached
maturity; and in the interim the discordant notes could be heard more
clearly. In the last twenty years, however, a marked change has taken
place in Russian literature. While there has not risen an author of the
first magnitude, there has been no lack of writers and poets of the
second rank, and the reactionary element has been well kept in abeyance.
Russian critics stigmatise this period as one of mediocrity, and despair
of the future, since never before has there been so long a time without
some author of strong personality and influence. In reality, the
symptoms are very encouraging. It is evident from the long duration of
the smouldering literary life that society is becoming more stable, even
though temporarily less deep, and that literary sentiment and culture is
gaining in breadth. The next outburst of literary activities will
unquestionably be greater than any that have preceded it.
II
The gloom which had spread over literature at the end of Catherine’s
reign was lifted at the very opening of the nineteenth century by the
accession of the liberal Alexander I. Instead of continuing the
persecution of the Free Masons and suppressing literature, the Emperor
himself favoured all kinds of mystic societies, and carried his
liberalism to the greatest extreme. He associated with Quakers, and
Jesuits were left unmolested in the capital. He proposed to reorganise
the country on Western models, and did not think it unwise to ask Thomas
Jefferson for a sketch of the American Constitution. He surrounded
himself with men of pronounced progressive tendencies, and heaped
honours on the author of the _Journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow_,
whose advanced ideas had so displeased Catherine.
Yet only the end of his reign saw the fruition of the new spirit in
literature, when Púshkin with his mighty genius for ever settled the
direction Russian letters were to take. There could have been no sudden
change. No new ideals had taken the place of the literary traditions of
the eighteenth century, which looked upon authorship as a pleasant
pastime and profitable exercise of wit, but did not invest the authors
with the dignity of social factors. Though Romanticism was rapidly
displacing the older pseudo-classicism, many authors of the former style
were still active among the changing surroundings. Ózerov produced his
thunderous dramas and found a ready audience, and Derzhávin not only
continued his writing of odes, but was able to maintain a coterie of
literary men who would not listen to the innovations of Karamzín.
The most persistent stickler for the old conventions was Shishkóv. He
had no ear for the subtler beauties of verse, and identified poetry with
high-sounding epithets and well-turned phrases. His admiration for the
older bards led him to seek in their language, with the strange
admixture of Church-Slavic words, the proper norm for all time, and to
abhor the introduction of foreign words, which Karamzín so dexterously
applied in his formation of a new literary style. As President of the
Russian Academy Shishkóv exercised a certain influence, and the
discussion of the two styles agitated society for some time. There was
just a spark of truth in his contention. Like Shcherbátov before him,
and the Slavophiles thirty years later, he was anxious to see a greater
approach to the national spirit. Like his predecessor, he did not fail
to recognise that the colourless imitation of foreign models was not
bringing literature any nearer to the people, and, like the older
historian, he receded as far as possible into the past in his search for
native elements. Writers were at that time not yet prepared to look for
a common bond with the people in a living intercourse with them.
In the meanwhile Karamzín proceeded to find his models for composition
in the West, and to base his literary style on a close imitation of
French and English writers. He freely introduced such words and turns as
would mould Russian into a simpler and more harmonious instrument. His
example has been followed ever since. He was led by personal
predilection and a natural pensiveness to father that sentimentalism
which had found such a ready soil in Europe. How unnatural for Russian
that sentimentalism was, may be seen in the gentle transformation the
peasants have suffered in his novels. But in his day no one took
exception to such a treatment, and many affected that exotic sentiment
themselves.
In general, the particular direction of any author was very much a
matter of chance. Not the necessities of the time, not the spiritual
needs of any class of society decided what the poet was to sing and the
novelist was to write about,--indeed, society had not yet risen to a
well-defined spiritual life,--but the temporary whim of the author, the
accidental acquaintance with this or that manifestation in the foreign
literatures were the only reasons for transplanting the foreign models
upon Russian soil. The adroitness with which extraneous themes have been
handled by many of the writers is truly remarkable. In Bátyushkov it
reached masterly perfection. Having tried himself in imitations of
German, French, and classical models, his interest finally centred on
the Italian poets, especially Tasso. The result of his especial
predilection was that faultless poem, _The Dying Tasso_, which combines
epic calm and majesty of language as probably no other production in
Russian literature. But he had no contemporary audience that could
follow him in his exquisite interpretation of the Italian classical
spirit, just as Gnyédich, the famous translator of the Iliad, felt
aggrieved at the indifference with which society met his great
undertaking.
While a select number of authors, separating themselves from the life
that surrounded them, found inspiration in the distant past, Zhukóvski
devoted himself to familiarising his nation with the productions of the
German Romantic Muse. But, while in Europe Romanticism was the logical
outcome of the period of storm and stress through which it had just
passed, it bore no relation to actual spiritual needs in Russia.
Consequently only the external form and the technique, and not the inner
meaning was transplanted by Zhukóvski to his native soil. It is true, he
all the time preached a high ideal for poetry, but that ideal was only
superficially related to the fashionable Romantic verse in which he
enunciated it.
More original than these was Krylóv who, basing his fables on those of
La Fontaine, clad them in an idiomatic form and adorned them with an art
peculiarly his own. It would be, however, a mistake to suppose that he,
at least, fell back on the native element for his subjects. There is
absolutely nothing Russian in his fables. Not only do the popular animal
stories differ widely from those employed by him for illustration, but
he did not hesitate to introduce classical allusions whenever a chance
offered itself. The same method, though in a coarser vein, was also
pursued by Izmáylov.
The year 1812 had its immediate effects upon literature. It gave rise to
patriotic songs, like Zhukóvski’s _In the Camp of Russian Warriors_, and
to the patriotic series by Rylyéev. It led to a closer study of Russian
history, and Karamzín’s monumental work could not have come at a more
auspicious period. The consequences were even greater. Many young
officers who had formed their ideals of life through the imitations of
their native literature took part in the campaign in Germany and France,
and there came in contact with all the living movements that agitated
the best minds. They brought home with them a new enthusiasm, formed
secret societies in imitation of the German _Tugendbund_, and dreamed of
a violent reorganisation of Russia. All the best young forces were
directly or indirectly affected by the new ideal. In the meanwhile the
Government entered into its phase of reaction, and obscurantism became
rampant. University professors were watched by the secret police, and
instruction was carried on under great difficulties. The slightest
expression of independence or freedom led to banishment and
imprisonment. The strained relations between the youthful idealists and
the reactionaries culminated in the unfortunate and impossible
Decembrist conspiracy in 1825, when Rylyéev, among others, paid the
penalty of death for his rashness.
But the accumulated literary force could no longer be dispersed. A
galaxy of poets had with wonderful skill reproduced every imaginable
aspect of European verse, even though they did not enter into a full
understanding of the meaning and duty of their art. The language had
been polished by Karamzín and his followers to its utmost extent and was
now capable of every literary form. It only needed a subtle genius to
breathe a soul into that fair body. That genius was Púshkin.
III
A period rich in literary experience and new modes of expression does
not necessarily presage the coming of a genius who will unify the
unrelated modes into a symmetric, intrinsically artistic whole. But,
given an ardent poetic soul and a time when the minds of men are
agitated by high aspirations and hopes, the opportunity is favourable
for that soul to become the focus of all the tendencies of the day, and
to reflect the accumulated force as one bright light for long years to
come. The conditions could not have been more auspicious for giving
direction and meaning to Púshkin’s genius. Not only Derzhávin, Karamzín,
Dmítriev, Zhukóvski, Bátyushkov, and Krylóv furnished him in his youth
with varied poetical productions for his imitation, but a large number
of minor poets, trained in the traditions of the eighteenth century,
Merzlyakóv, Neledínski-Melétski, Dolgorúki, were still active during the
formative time of his genius. And not only the external forms of verse
had been carried to a high perfection in his schooldays. The liberalism
of the Government in the beginning of Alexander’s reign, the stirring
patriotism of the nation consequent upon the events of the year 1812,
the crass obscurantism and reaction from above, and the secret
organisations of the youthful idealists which soon after superseded the
open progress of the previous decade,--all that combined to inspire the
younger generation of poets with the seriousness and dignity of their
mission.
In his evolution Púshkin passed through several stages. In _Ruslán and
Lyudmíla_, which he wrote in 1820, the year of his first exile, he
attempted to treat a popular subject in the Romantic style, but there is
little of a native element in it. During his banishment to the south he
came under the influence of Byron, and began his _Evgéni Onyégin_, the
first real Russian novel. In _Borís Godunóv_ he came under the spell of
Shakspere.
In the beginning of the new reign, Púshkin’s genius was clearly defined
and, departing from the Byronism of his former productions, became
completely original. At the same time he renounced the easy liberalism
of his younger days, and placed himself in the service of the Tsar.
Since he withdrew from the communion with the masses and preached an
aristocratism in letters as well as life, his real importance in Russian
literature has been obscured by the more democratic Gógol. The doctrine
which he taught, that art is to be exercised for art’s sake and not
polluted by contact with the vulgar, found no ready response in the
troubled years of the second half of the century. Only now, when the
battle for the masses has been fought, and literature is beginning to
lose its didactic and political value, there is to be noticed a growing
tendency to turn back to Púshkin as the fountainhead of Russian poetry.
This just renewal of the cult of Púshkin has already had the marked
effect of rediscovering and bringing to public notice the excellent
creations of the poets of his school, Tyútchev, Fet, Máykov, Polónski,
and others, and of stimulating the youngest generation of poets, whose
names are just beginning to be heard, to higher efforts.
Many contemporary poets were inspired by the master. Délvig, Rylyéev,
Baratýnski, Venevítinov, Yazýkov came under his influence, but they were
not able to follow him in his eagle flight, and stopped at the earlier
stages of his development. There were others who showed more
individuality, or even opened up new avenues in literature. Griboyédov’s
_Intelligence Comes to Grief_ stood out as the most remarkable drama
that had till then appeared in Russia, as it had seized with great
clearness the contradictory and indefinite tendencies of society, and
indicated the coming conflict between Westerners and Slavophiles. But
the indefinite tendencies of the time were reflected with far greater
power in Lérmontov.
Lérmontov’s _Hero of Our Time_ is, to a certain extent, an
autobiography. It is of the same spiritual family as _Evgéni Onyégin_,
but the greater indefiniteness and disenchantment of its hero supply a
true portrayal of the men of the thirties who had not yet come to have
any well-defined aims in life. Men were dissatisfied with the past, saw
all the misery and wretchedness that surrounded them, and wished for
something better to come, but did not have the energy to rise above
their surroundings and so lost themselves in contradictions and Byronic
despair. The same subjective tone runs through all his shorter poems and
through _The Demon_, that most precious flower of the whole Romantic
school. Such is the sweetness of his verse and the wealth of his imagery
that he is preferred by many foreign readers even to Púshkin.
More original than Lérmontov was his contemporary Koltsóv. His
middle-class surroundings had brought him in much closer contact with
the people than Púshkin, and his neglected early education operated in
favour of his poetic genius inasmuch as it kept him free from any
traditional associations. When his talent became apparent to him, he for
a short time tried his strength in the customary rhymed verses,
especially of the type of Púshkin, whom he greatly admired and
understood as few poets after him have done. But soon his native feeling
asserted itself, and he began to draw his inspiration from popular
songs. A number of poets before him, especially Délvig, had attempted
this kind of composition, but none of them had even distantly brought to
bear the same talent upon it as Koltsóv, and none after him have
equalled him.
While Romanticism was scoring its greatest successes, and a
novel-reading public was going into ecstasies over the impassioned
stories of Bestúzhev-Marlínski, Gógol evolved his series of naturalistic
stories, rising by pyramidal steps to his immortal _Dead Souls_, which
appeared in the very year that Lérmontov and Koltsóv died. A new chord
was struck,--one that reverberates even now through all Russian
literature. The foundation was placed for a Russian school of
belles-lettres, the first in its annals. All the peculiarities of
Russian literature for all time to follow are the direct outcome of the
tradition which begins with Gógol. His appearance, though startling and
unexpected, was not unprepared. There has always been a strong element
of sound naturalism in the Russian character. It shows frequently
through the Byzantine shroud in the earliest times; it refreshes us in
many a simple folktale; it is a pre-eminent characteristic of the
thoughts and acts of Peter the Great; it craves expression in the exotic
pseudo-classic rhetoric of the eighteenth century; it comes to the
surface in Púshkin’s best productions. Gógol had even a direct
predecessor in the manner of his stories in the person of Naryézhny who,
being born in the same locality with him, had fallen back on the same
rich narrative material of his native Little-Russia.
But in Gógol this naturalism was for the first time clearly expressed
and completely freed from all foreign contamination. Not at once,
however. He made his début with a Romantic idyl, and all his earlier
productions are still tinged with the current mannerism. Only in 1836
appeared his _Cloak_, the prototype of all later Russian novels. He was
not at once accepted by the public, so daring were his innovations, so
disenchanting his realism, so appalling the wretchedness of Russia which
he laid bare. He did not himself proceed consciously upon the new path,
but by the inspiration of his genius. Later in life, therefore, when a
reaction set in in his thoughts, he deeply regretted his earlier
activity. But there was no retracing his steps. The critic Byelínski had
subjected him to literary analysis, and had pronounced him the father of
the new school. It seemed to him as if there had not even existed a
literature before Gógol, and all previous writers henceforth barely eked
out an anthology existence.
The conscious tendency towards realism in Russia was due to another
fact. The predilection for the encyclopedic knowledge of France and its
literature had come to an end in the thirties. Young men had become
acquainted in Germany with the philosophy of Schelling and Hegel, and
the circles of Moscow were ever more familiarising themselves with the
more serious aspects of German science. Those who were not forgetful of
their obligations to Europe gathered around Byelínski in their advocacy
of a greater approach to Western ideals. Others, again, inspired by the
conceptions of _nation_, _national spirit_, _national destiny_, which
the German philosophers had evolved, were led to seclude themselves from
all foreign influence by advocating the narrow tenets of Slavophilism.
The Slavophiles have not produced one great author, for Khomyakóv is
better known for his theological writings than for his poetry, and
Aksákov, who had received his training before the thirties, wrote his
_Family Chronicle_ in his old age, evidently under the influence of
Gógol. All the great writers who are honoured abroad, Turgénev, Tolstóy,
Dostoévski, have issued from the camp of the Westerners, and had
received their impetus in the thirties and early in the forties.
After the year 1848 a reaction set in in letters, under the influence of
the political gloom that had been cast over Europe, but especially over
Russia. The censorship became more oppressive than ever, and a general
apathy took possession of society. Periodicals ceased to exist, or were
colourless and pedantic. The flimsiest society novels had pushed all the
great literature of the previous decade into the background. The gloom
hung over Russia until the end of the reign of Nicholas I., lighted up
only by the flashes of the great authors who were passing through their
apprenticeship.
IV
Gógol more appropriately ends the old series of authors than begins the
new. His powerful genius raised him above his predecessors, but the
absence of a definite political or social tendency in his works makes
him more akin to the writers of pure art. In the forties, a younger
generation of writers was trained in the philosophical conceptions of
Germany, and the democratic spirit that swept over Europe affected them
in favour of the people. It became incumbent on these authors, not
merely to amuse by their productions, but to teach and propagate
definite social ideals, to become the protagonists in the battle for
human liberties. At the same time the vast abyss which lay between their
theories and the disheartening reality about them, the unmooring from
all the traditions of the past, and the hopelessness of the future
developed in them a strain of scepticism and self-analysis that sooner
or later led to pessimism.
The oldest of these new authors, Turgénev, who was the first to express
his interest in the people, remained all his life an advocate of a
peaceful progress on the basis of a cautious adoption of Western ideals.
In style he was a realist of a pronounced type, but his genius saved him
from carrying his naturalism to the appalling extent to which the French
novelists have carried it. In 1847 he began to attract attention by his
sketches from peasant life, but in the sixties he depicted the condition
of the intelligent classes as affected by the emancipation of the serfs.
The keynote to the conception of his heroes is struck in an article of
his on _Hamlet and Don Quixote_, in which he expresses the thought that
all people belong to one of these two types, but that in his days there
was a predominance of Hamlets, that is, of such as are prone to analysis
and scepticism.
Goncharóv, in his _Oblómov_, has given us a type of a passive man who
lacks every initiative, and has generalised in his hero all Russians as
by nature incapable of active progress; but Tolstóy very early began to
carry his analysis to the farthest extent and not only assumed a
negative attitude towards all the questions of the day, but soon reached
the negation of all progress in general, and sought refuge from the
world without in a close communion with the people. He is less careful
about style and artistic perfection of his productions than Turgénev,
but in the portrayal of separate incidents and in analysis of character
he often rises to the highest art. In the second half of his life, but
especially since the eighties, Tolstóy has carried negation to the
impossible point of non-resistance, thus repeating, though not in an
identical form, the experience of Gógol.
Dostoévski, born and bred in the city under distressing circumstances,
appropriated for himself the analysis of the lower elements of the
population of the towns. His long imprisonment in Siberia acquainted him
with the mental and moral life of the criminals, and his own epileptic
and extremely nervous condition made it possible for him to pry into the
recesses of the diseased and depraved mind. His democratic love for the
subjects he described, and the psychological analysis to which he
submitted them, however startling and unusual they are in his case, are
in keeping with the traditions of the men of the forties.
No new school, no new tendency, has since supplanted the democratic
school of analysis which these authors had inaugurated nearly half a
century ago. Nearly all authors have taken the _people_ for their motto.
The question has only been to decide what really constitutes the
_people_. Just before and soon after the emancipation the peasants came
in for the largest share of attention. At first their real condition was
not clearly understood, and they were, on the one hand, idealised, and,
on the other, represented as objects worthy of ridicule. In the
meanwhile the Slavophiles, in their attempt to discover the national
spirit, did a great deal to study their customs and their oral
literature. Thus, by degrees, a proper understanding of the real life of
the peasant was possible, and the _novelists of the people_ were able to
treat them with greater objectivity and truth. Among these writers of
one class or other were Danilévski, Ryeshétnikov, Levítov, Glyeb
Uspénski, and Zlatovrátski.
Others, again, proceeded to busy themselves with the intelligent class,
pre-eminently with the negative sides of their existence. Písemski
painted them in the blackest colours, while Saltykóv applied his great
satirical talents more especially to the disclosure of all the
wretchedness and dishonesty of the middle and the official strata of
society. Ostróvski, again, took for his dramas the Moscow merchant class
which stood on the border of the old Russian civilisation, and treated
it ideally, apologetically, or negatively at various stages of his
development. In poetry the democratic spirit of the forties is best
reflected in Nekrásov and in a much lesser degree in Nikítin. Though
these writers are related to Koltsóv in the treatment of popular themes,
they differ vastly in the application of the democratic motive from
their more artistic predecessor.
In the seventies there was the usual reaction in literature as well as
in the political life of the nation. Since then a large number of
novelists and poets have been endeavouring to reproduce the currents of
modern society. The background of all this new literature is still the
democracy of the forties, but the centre of interest has shifted from
the peasant and the intellectual class to the large burgher population
in its undefined tendency to form a substantial middle class. There are
no pronounced ideas which these writers feel themselves called to
propagate or defend, hence their task is comparatively more difficult
than that of the previous generation. They are conscious of this, and
when accused of scattering their energies and not rising to the high
points of the men of the forties, they have justly answered that they
are at a loss to discover any positive tendencies in the nation to
reproduce. In the external technique of their works, however, there is a
decided improvement over the generation which has just passed away, and
the works would, no doubt, greatly interest foreign readers if they did
not so much approach well-known models of the West.
In this greater cosmopolitanism of the newer Russian literature, in the
broadening of the intellectual horizon, even though the literary life is
more shallow, lies the hope of Russia’s future. Life is readjusting
itself on a more stable basis. The tendencies of society, though
indefinite, are more normal. Hence didacticism in literature is rapidly
passing away, and art, this time tempered by the democratic spirit of
the age, bids fair to regain its place in letters. Two illustrations
will suffice to make this clear. Górki, who by his private life and the
influence of the democratic school has been led to descend to the lowest
dregs of society for his subjects, absolutely refrains from inculcating,
directly or indirectly, any social or political tenet. Whatever he
paints, he paints with the consummate skill of the artist for the sake
of art. Merezhkóvski, who has not yet entirely passed his apprenticeship
in letters, is trying to bridge over the democratic epoch, which he
abhors, and aspires for the laurels of Púshkin.
Compared with its humble beginnings in 1800, Russian literature has made
a wonderful record in the nineteenth century. The Russian language has
been moulded into an instrument of great perfection: it is melodious,
and capable of all shades of expression and all literary forms. The
great authors of its literature have become the possession of all
nations. Intellectual Russia no longer stands aloof. It is an important
and valuable member of the great nations of the world. From the steady
progress in the past, frequently under the most trying opposition, must
be prognosticated a still greater advancement in the future. It has well
learned its lessons from the West: it may yet become its teacher.
THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
Nikoláy Mikháylovich Karamzín. (1766-1826.)
Karamzín was born in the Government of Simbírsk. At fourteen years of
age he entered Professor Schaden’s school at Moscow, and later he
attended the university. In 1783 he settled in St. Petersburg where he
began his literary career in conjunction with his friend Dmítriev (see
vol. i., p. 428 _et seq._); he entered the army for a short time, and
spent the next year in his native place. After that he was taken to
Moscow by I. P. Turgénev, a friend of Nóvikov (see vol. i., pp. 32 and
327), and was brought by him under the educational influences of the
Masonic Society, which, however, he never joined himself. He devoted
himself to the study of the German language, from which he translated
much, and acquainted himself with English literature. In 1789 he
travelled extensively through Germany, Switzerland, France, and
England, meeting wherever possible the famous men of letters. Upon his
return he edited, among other periodicals, the _Moscow Journal_, in
which had appeared his _Letters of a Russian Traveller_. These differ
immensely in tone and literary execution from the similar compositions
by Fon-Vízin (see vol. i., p. 355 _et seq._), and indicate the great
stride made in the intellectual advancement of Russia in the short
period of one decade. They created a sensation, not only on account of
the pleasing and novel manner in which he treated serious subjects,
but in a greater measure on account of the strong element of
sentimental optimism that pervaded them. His sentimentalism is even
more pronounced in his poems, and in his novels _Poor Líza_, _Natálya,
the Boyár’s Daughter_, and _Burgomistress Márfa_.
In 1803 Karamzín was appointed historiographer, and he began to busy
himself with Russian antiquity. After twelve years of labour appeared
the first eight volumes of his _History of the Russian Empire_, in
which he continued the sentimental idealisation of the Russian past.
Though extolled by his contemporaries, and even later, as the first
real history of Russia, it differs from those of his predecessors, the
Russians Shcherbátov (see vol. i., p. 287) and Tatíshchev (_ib._, p.
218), and the German historians in Russia, not by any scientific
method, but by its literary exposition, which served as a model for a
generation of historical novelists. Karamzín’s greatest desert
consists in having purified the Russian language from the dross of
Church-Slavic words and constructions, by borrowing freely from the
store of the spoken language, and by following the simpler
constructions and the shorter sentences of the French and the English
languages. This innovation involved him in a long controversy with the
adherents of the old style, of which Admiral Shishkóv was the head,
but he came out victorious, and for ever established the Russian
literary norm.
There are several translations, or rather paraphrases, of Karamzín’s
stories, and one of his Travels, in English: _Russian Tales_, ...
translated into English by J. B. Elrington, London, 1803; _Julia_,
translated from the Russ into French by M. du Boullier, and from the
French into English by Ann P. H.[awkins], St. Petersburg, 1803; _Tales
from the Russian of Nicolai Karamsin_ [translated by A. A. Feldborg],
London, 1804; _Travels from Moscow, through Prussia, Germany,
Switzerland, France, and England_ ... translated from the German [by
A. A. Feldborg], 3 vols., London, 1803. A few of his poems are given
in Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I.: _The
Song of Bornholm_, _The Churchyard_, _Autumn_, _Lilea_, _To Nicander_;
and in Part II.: _Raïssa_, _The Haven_, _Song of the Good Tzar_,
_To ----_, _To the Nightingale_. An epigram is translated by V. E.
Marsden in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 9, and there is
also a version of _The Churchyard_ by W. H. Dole (publication not
ascertainable).
LETTERS OF A RUSSIAN TRAVELLER
TVER, May 18, 1789.
I have departed from you, my dear ones, I have departed! My heart is
attached to you with all its tenderest feelings; and here I am getting
farther and farther away from you!
O heart, heart! Who knows what you want? For how many years travel has
been the fondest dream of my imagination! Did I not in rapture say to
myself: “At last you will start”? Did I not awaken joyfully in the
morning, did I not fall asleep with pleasure, thinking: “You are going
to travel”? How long I could think of nothing else, busy myself with
nothing else except the journey! And did I not count the days and hours?
But when the desired hour arrived, I grew sorrowful, for I came to the
first vivid realisation that I was about to part from the dearest people
in the world, and from all that, so to say, entered into the composition
of my moral existence.
Whatever I looked at, whether at the table upon which I had for years
committed my unripe thoughts and feelings to paper; at the window under
which I used to sit dolefully in my fits of melancholy, and where the
rising sun found me so often; at the Gothic house, the favourite object
of my eyes in the nocturnal hours,--in short, everything that came
within my vision was for me a precious monument of the bygone years of
my life, rich not in deeds, but in thoughts and feelings. I bade
farewell to inanimate things as to friends; and while I was overcome and
dispirited, my servants came, and began to weep and entreat me not to
forget them and to take them back upon my return. Tears are contagious,
my dear ones, especially in such circumstances.
But you are the dearest to me, and I had to part from you. My heart was
so full that I forgot to speak. But why should I tell you that? The
moment when we bade each other good-bye was such that a thousand
agreeable minutes of the future will scarcely repay me for it.
Dear Petróv accompanied me to the toll-gate. There we embraced each
other, and for the first time I observed his tears; there I seated
myself in the kibítka,[1] glanced at Moscow, where I left behind so much
that was dear to me, and said: “Good-bye!” The bells jingled, the horses
galloped away,--and your friend was orphaned in the world, and his soul
was orphaned!
The whole past is a dream and a shadow! Oh! where are the hours when my
heart was so at ease among you, my dear ones? If the future were
suddenly revealed to the most fortunate man, his heart would congeal
with terror, and his tongue would grow dumb the very moment in which he
deemed himself the happiest of mortals.
Upon my whole journey not one cheering thought entered my mind. At the
last station in Tver, my melancholy had so increased that, standing, in
the village tavern, before the caricatures of the French Queen and the
Roman Emperor, I felt, as Shakspere says, “my blood weeping from my
heart.” All that I had left behind appeared to me in such a touching
aspect. But enough, enough! I am again growing very sad. Good-bye! May
God console you! Remember your friend, but without any grievous feeling!
[1] Native vehicle.
ON THE FRENCH TRAGEDY
In the so-called _French Theatre_ they play tragedies, dramas, and large
comedies. I have not changed my opinion of the French Melpomene. She is
noble, majestic, beautiful, but she never will touch and stir my heart
as does the Muse of Shakspere and of a few (’t is true, a very few)
Germans. The French poets have a delicate, refined taste, and may serve
as models in the art of writing. Only in the matter of invention,
warmth, and deep sentiment of Nature,--forgive me, sacred shades of
Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire!--they must concede the supremacy to the
English and the Germans. Their tragedies are filled with artistic
pictures in which the colours and shades are skilfully matched; but I
generally admire them with a cold heart. There is everywhere a mixture
of the natural with the romantic; everywhere “mes feux,” “ma foi”;
everywhere Greeks and Romans _à la française_, who are dissolved in
amatory raptures, who sometimes philosophise, express one thought in a
variety of choice words, and, losing themselves in a maze of eloquence,
forget to act. The public demands here of the author beautiful verses,
“des vers à retenir”; these make a play famous, and, consequently, the
versifiers use all their efforts to multiply their number, and are more
concerned about them than about the importance of the plot and the new,
extraordinary, yet natural situations, forgetting that character is
revealed in these unusual occurrences and that the very words obtain
their strength from them.
To be short, the creations of the French Melpomene are glorious, and
will always be glorious, by the beauty of their diction and brilliant
verses; but if a tragedy is deeply to stir our hearts or to terrify our
souls, Voltaire’s countrymen have, probably, no more than two real
tragedies, and D’Alembert very justly remarked that all their dramas
have been composed for reading rather than for the theatre.
ON SHAKSPERE
In dramatic poetry the English have nothing remarkable, except the works
of one author, but that author is Shakspere, and the English are rich!
It is easy to make light of him, not only with the mind of a Voltaire,
but also with the most ordinary mind. I do not wish even to dispute with
him who does not feel his great beauties. The amusing critics of
Shakspere resemble those naughty urchins who in the street surround a
strangely dressed man and cry out: “What a funny fellow! What a strange
fellow!”
Every author is marked with the stamp of his age. Shakspere wished to
please his contemporaries, knew their taste, and satisfied it. What
seemed to be witty then is now wearisome and repulsive; this is the
result of the evolution of the mind and taste, with which even the
greatest genius cannot count. But every real talent creates for
eternity, though paying the tribute to his age: the contemporary
beauties disappear, and the common ones that are based on the human
heart and on the nature of things preserve their strength, in Shakspere
as in Homer. The grandeur and truthfulness of the characters, the
attractiveness of the plot, the revelation of the human heart, and the
great thoughts that are scattered in the dramas of the British genius
will always keep their magic charm for people who are endowed with
sentiment. I know no other poet who has such an all-embracing, fertile,
inexhaustible imagination,--and you will find all kinds of poetry in
Shakspere’s works. He is the favourite son of the goddess Fancy who
surrendered to him her magic wand, and disporting in the luxuriant
gardens of the imagination he creates miracles at each step.
LONDON, September, 1790
There was a time, when I had hardly seen any Englishmen, when I went
into ecstasy over them, and imagined England to be of all countries the
most agreeable to my heart. With what delight, being a boarding pupil at
Professor S’s, I used to read during the American war the reports of the
victorious British admirals! Rodney, Howe, did not leave my tongue; I
celebrated their victories and invited my young schoolmates to my room.
It seemed to me that to be an Englishman was to be brave, also
magnanimous, sentimental, and true. If I am not mistaken, novels were
the chief foundation for this opinion. Now I see the English at close
range, and I do them justice and praise them, but my praise is as cold
as they themselves are.
Above all, I should not like to pass my life in England on account of
its damp, gloomy, sombre climate. I know that one may be happy even in
Siberia when the heart is satisfied and joyful, but a cheerful climate
makes us more cheerful, and here one feels, in a fit of pining and
melancholy, more than elsewhere like committing suicide. The groves,
parks, fields, gardens,--all that is beautiful in England; but it is all
covered with fogs, darkness, and coal smoke. The sun rarely peeps
through, and then only for a short time; but without it life upon earth
is not a pleasure. “Give my regards to the sun,” someone wrote from here
to his friend in Naples; “I have not seen him for a long time.” The
English winter is not so cold as ours; but we have at least beautiful
days in winter, which are uncommon here even in summer. How, then, can
an Englishman keep himself from looking like September?
In the second place, their cold natures do not please me in the least.
“It is a snow-covered volcano,” a French emigrant said of them smilingly
to me. But I stand, watch, see no flame, and meanwhile freeze. My
Russian heart loves to bubble in a sincere, lively conversation, loves
the play of the eyes, the rapid changes of the face, the expressive
motion of the hands. The Englishman is reticent, indifferent, and speaks
as he reads, without ever expressing those sudden mental convulsions
that electrify our whole physical system. They say he is profounder than
others. Is it not rather that he _seems_ profounder? Is it not because
his thick blood moves more slowly in him, and gives him the aspect of
being deep in thoughts, though he often has none? The example of a
Bacon, Newton, Locke, Hobbes, proves nothing. Geniuses are born in all
lands; the universe is their country, and, then, can it be said in
justice that, for example, Locke is deeper than Descartes and Leibnitz?
THE CHURCHYARD
FIRST VOICE
How frightful the grave! How deserted and drear!
With the howls of the storm-wind, the creaks of the bier,
And the white bones all clattering together!
SECOND VOICE
How peaceful the grave! Its quiet how deep!
Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep,
And flowerets perfume it with ether.
FIRST VOICE
There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead,
And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed,
And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss.
SECOND VOICE
How lovely, how lone the repose of the tomb!
No tempests are there, but the nightingales come
And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.
FIRST VOICE
The ravens of night flap their wings o’er the grave:
’T is the vulture’s abode; ’t is the wolf’s dreary cave,
Where they tear up the earth with their fangs.
SECOND VOICE
There the coney at evening disports with his love,
Or rests on the sod, while the turtles above
Repose on the bough that o’erhangs.
FIRST VOICE
There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath
And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death,
The trees are all barren and bare.
SECOND VOICE
Oh, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb,
And sweet with the violet’s wafted perfume,
With lilies and jessamine fair!
FIRST VOICE
The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears
Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears
He is launched on the wreck-covered river.
SECOND VOICE
The traveller outworn with life’s pilgrimage dreary,
Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary,
And sweetly reposes for ever.
--From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part
I.
POOR LÍZA
Perchance none of those who live in Moscow know the surroundings of that
city so well as I do, because nobody is oftener in the open than I,
nobody oftener wanders about, planlessly, aimlessly, whither his eyes
carry him, through meadows and groves, over hills and vales. Every
summer I discover new places of delight, or new beauties in those I
already know.
But most pleasant to me is the place where rise the sombre Gothic towers
of the monastery of St. Simeon. Standing on that mound, you survey upon
your right nearly all of Moscow, that enormous mass of houses and
churches, that presents itself to the eyes in the form of a majestic
amphitheatre,--a superb picture, especially when the sun shines upon it,
when his evening rays gleam on the innumerable gilded cupolas and the
innumerable crosses that tower to heaven!
Below, stretch the luscious, dark-green, blossoming fields; beyond them,
there flows over the yellow sands the limpid river, stirred by the light
oars of fishing-boats, or splashing under the prows of freighted barges
that come from the more fertile parts of the Russian Empire and supply
hungry Moscow with grain. On the other side of the river there is seen
an oak grove, and near it graze numerous flocks. There young shepherds,
sitting in the shade of trees, sing simple, doleful songs, and thus
shorten the monotonous summer days. A little farther off, in the dense
verdure of ancient elms, gleams the gold-domed monastery of St.
Daniel’s; still farther away, almost on the verge of the horizon, loom
the blue outlines of the Sparrow Hills. To the left appear vast,
grain-covered fields, groves, three or four villages, and, in the
distance, Kolómna with its high palace.
I often repair to that spot, and nearly always meet spring there;
thither I also repair in the gloomy days of autumn, to mourn together
with Nature. The winds moan terribly within the walls of the deserted
monastery, in the rank grass of the graves, and in the dark corridors of
the cells. There I lean against the ruins of the tombstones and hearken
to the hollow groan of Time, the groan of those swallowed by the abyss
of the past, which makes my heart flutter and tremble. At times I enter
into the cells, and I picture to myself those who have lived in
them,--sad pictures! Here I see a grey-haired old man bending his knee
before the crucifix and imploring a swift liberation from his earthly
fetters, for all pleasures of life have left him, all his feelings are
dead, except the feeling of ill-health and weakness. There a youthful
monk, with pale face and languishing glance, looks through the latticed
window, sees the merry birds that freely swim in the aërial ocean,--sees
them, and bitter tears issue from his eyes. He pines, withers, dries
up,--and the dismal sound of a bell announces to me his untimely death.
At times I scan on the doors of the sanctuary the representation of
miracles that have taken place in this monastery: there fishes fall from
heaven to appease the hunger of the denizens of the cloister that is
besieged by a multitudinous host; here the image of the Mother of God
puts the enemy to flight. All that refreshes in my mind the history of
our country,--the sad history of those times when the savage Tartars and
Lithuanians with fire and sword laid waste the surroundings of the
Russian capital, and when luckless Moscow, like a defenceless widow,
awaited from God alone succour in her dire distress.
But most frequently of all I am attracted to the walls of St. Simeon’s
monastery by the memory of the tearful fate of Líza, poor Líza. Oh! I
love those objects that touch my heart and cause me to shed tears of
tender sorrow!
Some five hundred feet from the cloister wall there stands, near a birch
grove, amidst a green field, a deserted hut without doors, without
windows, without a floor; its roof is decayed and has fallen in long
ago. In that hut there lived, some thirty years ago, lovely Líza with
her old mother.
Líza’s father was a fairly well-to-do peasant, for he loved work,
carefully tilled the soil, and always led a sober life. But soon after
his death his wife and daughter fell into poverty. The indolent hand of
the hired servant ploughed the field carelessly, and the grain began to
give diminished returns. They were compelled to let their land to a
tenant, at an inconsiderable income. At the same time the poor widow,
who continuously shed tears for her deceased husband,--for peasant women
also know how to love,--grew weaker and weaker from day to day, and
finally could not work at all. Líza alone, who was fifteen years old at
her father’s death,--Líza alone did not spare her tender youth nor her
rare beauty, and laboured day and night: she wove hempen cloth, knit
stockings; in springtime picked flowers, and in winter berries, and sold
them in Moscow. Seeing the indefatigableness of her daughter, the
sensitive, gentle old woman frequently pressed her to her feebly beating
heart, called her “divine grace, protector, consolation of my old age,”
and prayed to God to reward her for all she did for her mother.
“God gave me hands to work,” Líza would say. “You nourished me at your
breast, watched me in my childhood. Now it is my turn to look after you.
Only stop grieving, stop weeping! Our tears will not bring father to
life.”
But often gentle Líza could not restrain her own tears, for oh! she
recalled that she had had a father, and that he was no more; but to
comfort her mother she tried to hide the grief of her heart, and to
appear calm and gay.
“In the world to come, beloved Líza,” the sorrowing old woman answered,
“in the world to come I shall cease to weep. There, they say, we shall
all be happy; I shall certainly be happy when I see your father again.
But I do not wish to die now, for what would become of you without me?
To whom could I leave you? No, God grant me first to see you provided
for! Maybe some good man will be found for you. Then I will bless you,
my dear children, will make the sign of the cross, and willingly will
lie down in the damp earth.”
FROM THE “HISTORY OF THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE”
INTRODUCTION
History is in a certain sense the sacred book of the nations, their most
important and indispensable book, the mirror of their being and
activities, the tables of their revelation and of their laws, the
injunction of the ancestors to their posterity, the complement, the
exposition of the present, and the example for the future.
Rulers and lawgivers act according to the lessons of history, and look
upon its pages as the mariner looks upon his ocean charts. Human wisdom
is in need of experience, and life is short. It is necessary to know how
riotous passions have of yore agitated civil society, and in what manner
the beneficent dominion of reason has bridled its tempestuous onrush, in
order to establish order, harmonise the interests of men, and give them
the best attainable happiness upon earth.
But even a simple citizen must read history. It reconciles him to the
imperfection of the visible order of things, as to a common phenomenon
in all ages; consoles him in his country’s calamities, by certifying to
former similar, even more ominous misfortunes, by which the country did
not perish; it fosters a moral sense, and by its equitable judgment
inclines the soul to justice, by which our well-being and the concord of
society are confirmed.
Such is its usefulness, and many are the pleasures of heart and mind
that are derived from it. Curiosity is an innate feeling with the man of
culture and with the savage. At the famous Olympic games the noise died
down, and the masses preserved silence around Herodotus reading the
traditions of the ages. Even before knowing the use of letters, the
nations love history: the old man points out to the youth the elevated
tomb and narrates to him the deeds of the hero resting in it. The first
experiments of our ancestors in the art of writing were devoted to
religion and history; shrouded by a dense cloud of ignorance, the people
listened eagerly to the accounts of the chroniclers. Even fiction
pleases, but to get a full pleasure out of it we must deceive ourselves
and imagine that it is true. By opening the graves, raising the dead,
putting life into their hearts and words upon their lips, by recreating
kingdoms from the dust and presenting to the imagination a series of the
ages with their several passions, customs, acts,--history expands the
limits of our own existence. By its creative power we live with the men
of all times, see and hear them, love and hate them; before we think of
usefulness, we revel in the contemplation of the various occurrences and
of the characters that entertain the mind or nurture our sensibilities.
If every history, even the inartistically written, may be pleasing, as
Pliny says,--how much more that of our native land! A true cosmopolite
is a metaphysical being or so unusual a phenomenon that there is no need
of speaking of him, neither to praise nor to condemn him. We are all
citizens,--in Europe and in India, in Mexico and in Abyssinia; the
personality of each is closely bound up with his country: we love it
because we love ourselves. The Greeks and the Romans may captivate our
imagination: they belong to the family of the human race and are no
strangers to us in their virtues and in their weaknesses, in their glory
and in their calamities; but the name of a Russian has a special
attraction for us: my heart beats more strongly for Pozhárski[2] than
for Themistocles or Scipio. Universal history by its great recollections
embellishes the world in our eyes, but Russian history embellishes our
country in which we live and feel. How attractive are to us the banks of
the Vólkhov, Dnieper, Don, when we know what has taken place upon them
in remote antiquity! Not only Nóvgorod, Kíev, Vladímir, but even the
cabins of Eléts, Kozélsk, Gálich, become interesting monuments, and mute
objects grow eloquent. The shadows of bygone centuries everywhere draw
pictures before us.
Outside of their special value for us, sons of Russia, its annals have
an universal interest. Let us cast a glance at this unique Empire:
thought staggers! Rome in all her majesty, ruling from the Tiber to the
Caucasus, to the Elbe and to the African sands, could never equal it. Is
it not wonderful how a land that is disrupted by eternal barriers of
Nature, by immeasurable deserts and impenetrable forests, by cold and
hot climates, how Astrakhán and Lapland, Siberia and Bessarabia, could
have formed one empire with Moscow? And is that mixture of its
inhabitants less wonderful, that composite and heterogeneous mass of
varying degrees of civilisation? Like America, Russia has its savages;
like other countries of Europe, it displays the fruits of a protracted
civil existence. One need not be a Russian, one need only think, in
order to read with curiosity the traditions of a nation that by daring
and courage has obtained the dominion over the ninth part of the world,
has discovered countries, heretofore unknown, has entered them in the
universal system of geography and history, and has enlightened them
through God-sent faith, without violence, without atrocities practised
by the other devotees of Christianity in Europe and America, but merely
by dint of good example.
We shall admit that the deeds described by Herodotus, Thucydides, Livy,
are in general more interesting to others than to Russians, representing
as they do more force of character and a more vivid play of the
passions, since Greece and Rome were world powers and more enlightened
than Russia; yet we may boldly assert that certain incidents, pictures,
characters, of our history are not less curious than those of antiquity.
Such are the exploits of Svyatosláv, the scourge of Batý, the popular
rising under Donskóy, the fall of Nóvgorod, the taking of Kazán, the
victory of the civic virtues in the time of the interregnum. The giants
of the early dawn, Olég and the son of Ígor; the simple-minded knight,
blind Vasílko; the friend of his country, virtuous Monomákh; the brave
Mstislávs, terrible in war and an example of meekness in peace; Mikhaíl
of Tver, so famed for his magnanimous death; the ill-fated, truly
courageous Aleksándr Névski; the youthful hero, the vanquisher of
Mamáy,--the slightest sketch of them acts powerfully on the imagination
and on the heart. The reign of Iván III. alone is a rare treasure of
history; at least I know of no monarch more worthy to live and shine in
its sanctuary. The rays of his glory fall upon the cradle of Peter, and
between these two autocrats are the remarkable Iván IV. and Godunóv, who
merited his good fortune and his reverses; the strange False Demetrius;
and, after a host of valiant patriots, boyárs, and citizens, the mentor
of the enthroned, Patriarch Filarét with his august son, the
light-bearer in the darkness of our country’s woes; and Tsar Alexis, the
wise father of the Emperor whom Europe has called the Great. Either all
modern history must be silent, or that of Russia has a right to be
heard.
[2] The liberator of Russia, during the interregnum of the False
Demetrius.
Iván Andréevich Krylóv. (1768-1844.)
Krylóv’s biography is not satisfactory. It is known that he was the
son of a poor army officer, and that he lost his father early in life.
He received only the scantiest education, and while still a boy became
acquainted with practical life. He served in various capacities in the
government offices of St. Petersburg and the province. Then he
disappeared from public view for a number of years, though it is
surmised that he passed much of that time gambling at cards, to which
he was passionately addicted. In 1812 he received an appointment at
the Imperial (later the Public) Library, which gave him ample leisure
to devote himself to literature, though his innate laziness made him
very unproductive. Krylóv first entered the literary career before the
age of twenty, by a series of mediocre comedies. From 1789 he edited a
number of periodicals, the first of which, _The Spirit Post_, was in
the manner of the older satirical journals. It was here that he began
to develop the fine satirical vein for which his fables later became
so famous. In 1809 appeared the first small collection of his fables.
Most of his subjects he borrowed from the older writers, especially
from La Fontaine, but he not only gave them a Russian surrounding, but
invested them with such an artistic atmosphere as to make them the
possession of all times and all nations. His fables have been
translated into all the European and some of the Asiatic languages.
There are several translations of Krylóv in English: _Krilof and his
Fables_, by W. R. S. Ralston, London, 1869 (4th edition, 1883; several
of the poems had been published before, in 1868 and 1870, in _Good
Words_); _Krilof’s Fables, Illustrating Russian Social Life_,
translated from the Russian for the Calcutta Weekly “Englishman” [by
J. Long], Calcutta, 1869; _Kriloff’s Original Fables_, translated by
I. H. Harrison, London, 1883. Separate fables have been translated by
Sir John Bowring in his _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I.
(from the manuscript furnished him by Krylóv); three poems, given
below [by W. D. Lewis] in the National Gazette and Literary Register,
Philadelphia, 1825; in _Russian Fabulists, with Specimens_, in
Fraser’s Magazine, 1839 and 1842; in Chambers’s Journal, vol. V.,
1856; by Sutherland Edwards, in _The Russians at Home_, London, 1861;
by R. Garnett, in The University Magazine, 1879 (_Fables from
Krilof_); by C. T. Wilson, in _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887; by John
Pollen, in _Rhymes from the Russian_, London, 1891.
THE ASS AND THE NIGHTINGALE
Chancing a Nightingale to meet,
Thus did an Ass the songstress greet:--
“Whither in such a hurry winging?
I ’m told, my dear, you ’re famed for singing.
My curiosity I fain would satisfy,
So if you ’ll condescend to gratify,--
Come! for a specimen of your rare skill,
And let me hear how featly you can trill!”
Forthwith the Nightingale began,
And through her cadences she ran,
Now tender and most soft,
Anon her voice she raised aloft;
While all around in silence hushed
Listened to her melting strain,
As its music sweetly gushed,
And floated over dale and plain;
Hardly breathed the enraptured swain
As drank his ear of sound the stream,
And as he mused on the varying theme.
Ceased the songstress, the critic Ass
His sentence thus began to pass:--
“Upon my word, ’t is not amiss!
Yet you should hear
Friend Chanticleer.
From him some lessons you ’d do well to take.
His mode of singing well I know,
Nor can there finer be, I trow.
Yes! He is clever;
And you, my dear, should by all means endeavour
Like him to crow!
He has a voice--a shake--
That really keeps folks quite awake.
Yet after all you do not sing amiss.”
On hearing this,
Far away the song-bird flew.
--From _Russian Fabulists, with Specimens_, in Fraser’s Magazine,
1842.
THE QUARTETTE
The tricksy Monkey, the Goat, the Ass, and bandy-legged Míshka the Bear,
determine to play a quartette. They provide themselves with the
necessary pieces of music--with two fiddles, and with an alto and
counter-bass. Then they sit down on a meadow under a lime-tree, prepared
to enchant the world by their skill. They work away at their
fiddlesticks with a will; and they make a noise, but there is no music
in it.
“Stop, brothers, stop!” cried the Monkey, “wait a little! How can we get
our music right? It ’s plain, you must n’t sit as you are. You, Míshka,
with your counter-bass, face the alto. I will sit opposite the fiddle.
Then a different sort of music will begin: we shall set the very hills
and forests dancing.”
So they changed places, and recommenced; but the music is just as
discordant as ever.
“Stop a little!” exclaims the Ass; “I have found out the secret. We
shall be sure to play in tune if we sit in a row.”
They follow its advice, and form in an orderly line. But the quartette
is as unmusical as ever. Louder than before there arose among them
squabbling and wrangling as to how they ought to be seated. It happened
that a Nightingale came flying that way, attracted by their noise. At
once they all entreat it to solve their difficulty.
“Be so kind,” they say, “as to bear with us a little, in order that our
quartette may come off properly. Music we have; instruments we have:
tell us only how we ought to place ourselves.”
But the Nightingale replies:
“To be a musician, one must have a quicker intelligence and finer ear
than you possess. You, my friends, may place yourselves just as you
like, but you will never become musicians.”
--From W. R. S. Ralston’s _Krilof and his Fables_.
DAMIAN’S FISHSOUP
“Well, neighbour, now you are a brick!
Come, try some more.”
“Neighbour, I ’m bursting quite.”--“No humbug, quick--
One plateful let me pour:
Real fishsoup, see what soup, done to a _t_.”--
“But that ’s my third.”--“Hush! here we count nor plates nor glasses--
With a good appetite all passes:
Digestion ’s good for sleep, you see.
’T is tempting, ’t is a very jelly;
Look at the amber that its surface coats,
Indulge, old chum, unto thy heart’s content!
See there, ’t is bream, here sterlet choice that floats!
That liver there for thee was meant.
Another spoonful!--Wife, thy reverence make!--
One small one more, and for my sake!”
Thus feasted Damian once his old friend Neddy;
No time to breathe or talk, kept to it steady.
Down Neddy’s face had long been trickling rain,
But, yielding unto fate, his plate he hands again;
And, summoning his strength remaining,
He swallows all.--“Now, that a friend I call,”
Exulting Damian cries; “why on excuses fall
To spare my cheer? Then once more show your training!”
Then hapless Neddy, who
Doted on fish, at this aggression new,
Seizing his coat,
Stick, and capote,
Ran straight and swiftly to his own street door,
And ne’er set foot in Damian’s parlour more.
Good author, happy thou in gift beyond dispute;
But, if thou hast not learned yet to be mute,
Boring unwilling ears to suit
Nor time nor place, be sure--thy verse or prose
More sickening e’en than Damian’s fishsoup grows.
--From I. H. Harrison’s _Kriloff’s Original Fables_.
THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB
Whene’er companions don’t agree,
They work without accord;
And naught but trouble doth result,
Although they all work hard.
One day a Swan, a Pike, a Crab,
Resolved a load to haul.
All three were harnessed to the cart,
And pulled together all.
But though they pulled with all their might,
That cart-load on the bank stuck tight.
The Swan pulled upwards to the skies,
The Crab did backwards crawl,
The Pike made for the water straight:
This proved no use at all.
Now, which of them was most to blame
’T is not for me to say,
But this I know,--the load is there
Unto this very day.
--From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_.
THE LION AND THE WOLF
A hungry Lion on a lamb was feeding,
When a poor dog passed by,
And, with a patient look of meekness pleading,
Shared in the banquet, while the royal beast
Smiled at his ignorant simplicity.
A Wolf looked on, and said: “And surely I
May have a portion of the prey,--at least,
Indeed, I ’ll try.”
He came,--came boldly: when the Lion saw
His purpose, he upraised his kingly paw,
Smote him to earth, and left him there to die.
There ’s some excuse for inexperience;
But none for daring, insolent pretence.
--From National Gazette and Literary Register, Philadelphia,
September 3, 1825.
THE CLOUD
Over the thirsty plains a pregnant Cloud
Rolled on its forward way;
Scorning the cliffs whose summit proud
Beneath it lay;
While to the overflowing sea
It poured its waters forth rejoicingly.
“Am I not liberal?” to the Mountain cried
The Cloud, while the swift torrents swelled the tide.
“Liberal! The panting field and sun-dried plain
Asked for one drop, one single drop, in vain,”
Exclaimed the Mountain; “liberal, indeed,
To those who asked no favour,--felt no need!”
--_Ib._
THE SHIPWRECKED SAILOR AND THE SEA.
The waves had whelmed the venturous bark,
And dashed the shipwrecked seaman to the shore;
He turned himself, impatient at the roar,
And cried, “Perfidious Sea!
Why didst thou lure me, smiling tranquilly,
To such a fate, so desolate and dark?”
The Ocean-god awoke, and frowning said:
“Hurl not thy vain reproaches at my head;
My waters calmly ebb and flow,
Till the land-warring tempests break their rest,
Go! to the storm-winds be thy plaints addressed,
Go! to the whirlwind, go!”
--_Ib._
Aleksándr Efímovich Izmáylov. (1779-1831.)
Izmáylov was for a short time vice-governor of Tver and Arkhángelsk.
He published several periodicals, to which he contributed sentimental
novels in Karamzín’s style. He wrote a number of fables in a somewhat
coarse manner, which earned for him the title of “an author not for
ladies.”
_The Drunkard’s Vow_ is given in _Russian Fabulists_, in Fraser’s
Magazine, vol. xxv., 1842; _The Drunkard’s Answer_, _The Ladder_, _The
Donkey and the Horse_ are given in Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_. An
epigram is translated by V. E. Marsden in The Anglo-Russian Literary
Society, No. 9.
THE DRUNKARD’S VOW
A toper made a solemn vow he never more would touch,
Or punch, or grog, or spirits mixed, or any compounds such.
Yet though to make ’t was easy, to keep so strict a vow,
To prove an easy matter was not likely, you ’ll allow.
Soon after was our tippler seen reeling ’long the street.
“How now!” a neighbour cried, “why, you scarce can keep your feet.
I thought you had forsworn for ever punch and grog?”
“And so I have, nor do I now touch either, you dull dog;
But I keep my vow unbroken by drinking spirits _neat_.”
--From _Russian Fabulists_, in Fraser’s Magazine, vol. xxv.
THE CANARY AND THE NIGHTINGALE
In a beautiful cage near the window in the garden was a Canary who sang
the livelong day alone. At some distance, where an avenue of birches led
to a bramble bush, a lonely Nightingale sang through the nights and
early in the mornings. Both man and beast and bird, and all that have
blood, feel all-powerful love in spring. The two singers made each
other’s acquaintance, and forthwith the Canary forgot the naughty Parrot
in his foppish green uniform for the sake of the Nightingale. No sweeter
bird, in all the world, for her than the Nightingale, and what a
charming voice he had!
The Nightingale, the favourite of the roses, frequently left at night
his fragrant birches, and flitted near the window over the flower bed,
and in the hope of a reward serenaded her in the lilac bushes, for he
loved the Canary with all his heart. At first, like the artist he was,
he appeared awkward and timid, but at last he made up his mind and,
sighing, explained his burning passion for her. The sentimental daughter
of the Canary Islands, who was yellower than straw and lemons, blinking,
sang out in semitones that the best of singers was dear to her. The
lovers agreed to fly into the distant forest (they had forgotten to
close the cage); so, the heavens favouring them, the bridegroom and
bride started for the wished-for woods. They flew for a long while, and
at last, late in the evening, alighted in a thicket; they kissed each
other and began to sing,--but they had not eaten since morning. So the
bride said to her husband:
“How nice it is to listen to your singing! But, could I not have a bite
of something?”
“Right away, my angel!” and the Nightingale flew away, as if pursued by
a hawk, and returned a minute later:
“O friend of my soul! Here are little ants, they are very good! Here are
some ant eggs----”
“Sir, that is no food for a bird brought up in the capital! Bring me
crackers and candy!”
“Alas, there are none in the woods!”
“No? Do you expect me to starve?”
“Maybe I shall find some kernels in the field!”
“What? Do you expect me to peck kernels?”
And she began to scold her husband, broke her relations with him, and
transferred herself to the Parrot in the garden.
Inexperienced bridegrooms! If you are charmed by a _cultivated_ maiden
who has never been away from the luxurious capital,--read with her my
verses; if she will agree to eat _forget-me-not soup_, you may safely
marry her.
THE TWO CATS
Vánka the Cat and Váska were two brothers; they were both born and lived
in the same house. Vánka was so lean that it would frighten you to look
at him,--in truth, he was not rounder than a plank; whereas Váska was as
fat as the steward, and could barely waddle on account of his obesity;
his fur had the sheen of velvet.
“We have not the same luck, though we are of one mother,” said the
skeleton to him. “You know no cares; you are never without meat, not
even on week-days. You are free to eat meat, while with me it is always
Lent; you sleep long, while I hardly know of sleep, preserving the whole
house from mice and rats,--yet, with all my zeal, I am hungry----”
“And stupid!” the fat one interrupted him. “Brother, come to your
senses! Take me for an example, if you want to be fatter.”
“Pray, what am I to do?”
“Amuse your master, walk on your hind legs in his presence, dance, leap
over his arm when he stretches it out, and learn all my amusing tricks.
Believe me, you will be loved as well as have your hunger satisfied.
Know, silly one, that he who pleases people in trifles and foolish
things never loses by doing so; but he who labours for their benefit and
passes sleepless nights often stays hungry.”
Vasíli Trofímovich Naryézhny. (1780-1825.)
Naryézhny was born but a short distance from Gógol’s native place. In
1801 he graduated from the Moscow University, and entered the army.
After that he served in various departments, rising to the post of
Chief of Department. He wrote a tragedy, _The False Demetrius_, which
was published in 1804; in 1814 appeared the first three volumes of
_The Russian Gil Blas_: the last three volumes did not get the
censor’s imprimatur. There is much in the manner of this
Little-Russian author that reminds of Gógol, who availed himself not
only of the genre of his predecessor, but also of the very
subject-matter for his classical creations. The very titles of
Naryézhny’s later works, _The Seminarist: A Little-Russian Story_, and
_The Two Iváns; or, The Passion for Litigation_, recur in a modified
form in Gógol’s works. It was only a short time ago that this relation
of the two authors was pointed out.
FROM “THE TWO IVÁNS; OR, THE PASSION FOR LITIGATION”
The day was inclining to its fall, but the merriment in the house of the
hospitable host did not abate. A large number of visitors were not a
burden to him. He feasted the men, and his wife the women. Pan Kharitón
took the guests around in the garden, though the September winds had
already brought half of the leaves to the ground; to the barn, where he
figured out how much brandy every stack of rye would give him; to the
cattle yard, where he had occasion to boast of his bulls and cows, goats
and wethers. His spouse showed her friends from the window the flocks of
chickens, geese, ducks and turkeys, telling them in detail of the
peculiarities of every cock and hen. Is not that charming?
When all had gathered again in the room, where the table was set with
earthen wine-jugs filled with steaming spiced brandy, and the host and
guests had placed their cups at random before them, they heard in the
yard the rattle of wheels and the tramp of horses, and soon appeared in
the assembly a thick-set man of some fifty years, expansive about his
abdomen and broad in his shoulders. His bald head shone like the full
moon. Who was that guest? The scribe of the hundred-court, Pan Anúri.
All rose respectfully, and the host gave him a friendly embrace, offered
him his seat, and set before him his cup of mulled brandy. They all
looked into his eyes, eagerly caught every word of his, and laughed
uproariously when that fool smiled at his own witticisms.
When three cups had found their way into his entrails, he stood up
akimbo and announced: “What will you give me, Pan Kharitón, for the good
news which I bring you from town? The judge of the hundred-court said to
me, as he handed me this batch of papers: ‘Go, my friend, and place
these papers into the personal hands of Pan Kharitón!’ From this I
conclude,” proceeded Anúri, “that they are favourable, for I am seldom
wrong in my conclusions.”
“I understand, I understand!” said Pan Kharitón, and went out smiling.
Anúri had barely gotten away with the fourth cup, when Pan Kharitón
appeared with some gifts and offered him a new hat of the best cowhide,
new boots, permeated by the purest tar, and a clay pipe, the work of the
first Poltáva potter. Pan Anúri received the offerings with
condescension and hastened to his two-wheeled cart to deposit them
there, after which he entered the room with a large sealed batch of
papers, handed it respectfully to Pan Kharitón, and seated himself in
his old place. Pan Kharitón cursorily glanced at every paper and said:
“After all the troubles I have had, my eyes have grown dim. Be so kind,
Pan Anúri, as to read them. The decree of the hundred-court is no
secret.”
Pan Anúri took the documents with much dignity, selected from them the
judgment, put on his eyeglasses, and began to read: “Pan Kharitón Zanóza
appears as the plaintiff against Pan Iván Zúbar and Pan Iván Khtára,
claiming that they had burnt down his dove-cots with all the pigeons, of
which there were more than two hundred; the two Pans Iván, however,
declare that the apiary of the elder Iván, containing not less than
fifty hives, has been destroyed.
“The hundred-court, having taken into consideration all circumstances,
as is meet, decrees:
1. “Granting that during the fire of Pan Kharitón’s dove-cot all the
pigeons, of which there were more than two hundred, _i. e._, two hundred
and one, have perished, and estimating the price of each pigeon at the
maximum of a farthing, his damage amounts to fifty kopeks and a
farthing. But since the two Pans Iván declare under oath that they have
used as food only twenty birds, the real damage which they have done
amounts only to five kopeks; the rest of the pigeons either flew away,
or were burnt. Whereas nobody tied any of the aforesaid pigeons or cut
their wings, they might have flown away, and thus they were roasted by
their own free will.
2. “Pan Iván the elder has lost fifty hives that at the time were full
of honey. Upon inquiry it is found that such a hive is worth sixty
kopeks, and thus his damage amounts to thirty roubles. Excluding from
that sum five kopeks, Pan Kharitón has caused to Pan Iván the elder a
real damage of twenty-nine roubles and ninety-five kopeks, which sum is
without delay to be turned over within three days to Scribe Anúri. Of
this sum twenty-eight roubles and ninety-five kopeks will be retained
for the necessary expenses of the hundred-court; the remaining rouble is
to be turned over to Pan Iván the elder, he signing a receipt for it.”
Who will describe Pan Kharitón’s fury! He cracked the knuckles of his
fingers, stamped the floor with his feet, and rolled his eyes terribly.
Finally he jumped up like one beside himself, ran to the perplexed
scribe, grabbed the fatal judgment out of his hands, tore it to shreds,
and threw it into the eyes of the ambassador of the hundred-court. On
all sides was heard a noise and murmuring. Pan Kharitón paid no
attention to anything; he shouted to the scribe: “Why have you been
riding about upon my horses? Eh? Why have you been tilling your soil
with my steers, and sowing it with my grain? Eh? Why have you been
devouring my sheep and wethers, and making fur coats out of their hides?
Eh? Why have you been taking my money, you destroyers of souls,
good-for-nothings, robbers? Why have you been extorting money from me, I
say, if you had no intention to stand by me? Eh?”
With these words, to the horror of all the guests and their
families,--for at the thunderous roar of Pan Kharitón all the women and
daughters of the guests had made their appearance,--he pulled Pan Anúri
by his collar, dragged him out into the yard, lifted him up, banged him
into his cart, jammed the reins into his hands, gave him two mighty
blows in his occiput, raised from the ground a birch club and began to
belabour, now the horse, now Anúri. The poor animal flew out of the yard
into the road as fast as it could, and Pan Kharitón ran out after the
cart and shouted to the scribe: “Tell the fool of a hundred-judge and
the good-for-nothing members of the hundred-court that they are
transgressors of the law, and that I shall go to-morrow to Poltáva to
cite them before the regimental chancery!”
Having obtained such a famous victory over their worst enemy in the
matter of the burnt-down dove-cot and destroyed apiary, the two Pans
Iván were travelling in triumph from the town to their abode, when they
espied in the middle of the road near the tavern the cart, and they
immediately knew to whom it belonged.
“That ’s fortunate,” said Iván the elder: “we ’ll take the rouble that
belongs to us from Anúri and will give him a good treat.”
They entered the tavern and sure enough saw Pan Anúri sitting over a
cup, but in a most dejected attitude. “What ’s the matter, Pan Anúri?”
cried out Iván the elder: “The cup is at your very mouth, and you look
so sad,--those things do not fit together. Jew, give us two more cups,
of anything you please, so it ’s of the best spirits! Really, you, Pan
Anúri, are a great fellow and pretty slick! Who would have thought you
could manage in so short a time that riotous head of worthless Zanóza?”
“I should say I did manage!” said Anúri with a bitter smile and, filling
his cup, drank from it with unmistakable disgust. The two Iváns looked
at his strange action in wonderment, and pressed him with all kinds of
questions.
Anúri told them all in detail. Having listened with undisguised
attention to this incident which had been unheard of in Little-Russia
from its beginning, the two Iváns were heartily glad, and the elder one
clapped his hands. Anúri showed a very dissatisfied look and asked:
“Is it possible that you, whom I regarded as my friends, can rejoice at
my having had my occiput boxed and at the descent of full-weighted blows
upon my back?”
“Not at all,” answered Iván the elder: “we rejoice and are merry not
because you, our friend and go-between, have received a fine drubbing,
but because it has been administered to the worshipful scribe of the
hundred-court by the bold hand of furious Zanóza. We hope that this
wrongdoing will be his surer undoing than massacred coneys, maimed
geese, ducks, sheep and, finally, the destroyed apiary! It is no
trifling matter to dare box the occiput and warm up ten times with a
birch rod Pan Anúri, a man grown grey and bald among papers, ink, and
pens!”
“He ’s warmed me up just twelve times,” said Pan Anúri proudly, “and
though he missed me the thirteenth time, it ought to be counted a blow
all the same. Besides, he has disgraced the judge and the hundred-court
with the foulest curses, and in the presence of an immense throng of
noblemen and ladies; he dragged me through the whole room, which is the
same as if he dragged me through the whole house;--then by my collar
which reaches up to my occiput, hence it is the same as if he had pulled
me along by my hair. O Pans Iván! If you rejoice because Kharitón Zanóza
will be repaid for this godless deed with interest, I am glad! Oh, if he
had twice the property he possesses, it would not be enough to pay me
for the disgrace and battery. No! he will have to become acquainted with
the city prison and find out the taste of stale bread and water. I give
you my hand that this will happen, and before long!”
Vasíli Andréevich Zhukóvski. (1783-1852.)
Zhukóvski was the son of a landed proprietor of Túla, by the name of
Búnin, and of a captive Turkish woman, but received his own name from
his godfather, who happened to be living at Búnin’s house. After the
death of his father he was adopted by Mrs. Búnin, who cared for him as
for her own son. He was first educated in the public school of Túla,
but was requested to be removed on account of dulness. He was then
privately brought up in the house of his godmother, where, at the age
of twelve, he composed and acted two dramas--one of them from Roman
history. In 1796 he was taken to Moscow to be placed in the
boarding-school that was connected with the Moscow University. He
there came in contact with a number of talented young men who later
made their mark in literature, and under the inspiring influence of
the school began, at the early age of fourteen, to contribute poems to
the periodical press. His earliest verses contained frequent
references to death and the cemetery, and when, a few years later, he
lost a friend, he remembered him by translating Gray’s _Elegy_. That
was the beginning of his literary fame. He then translated a large
number of poetical productions from the German, French, and English,
invariably choosing melancholy subjects, as more adapted to his
sentimental, reflective nature.
It was chiefly Zhukóvski who transplanted the German Romanticism to
Russia, but his deserts are not only in having abandoned the
pseudo-classic style of poetry: he was the first to recognise the
important educational value of poetry, and its moral power, which made
it the equal of religion, or, as Zhukóvski put it, “Poetry is the
terrestrial sister of heavenly religion,” and “Poetry is virtue.” He
achieved his fame by his ballad _Svyetlána_. The _Minstrel of the
Russian Camp_ was written by him at the campfires during the War of
1812: it produced a tremendous outburst of enthusiasm among the whole
army. He soon became a great favourite at the Court, and in 1817 was
chosen as teacher of Russian to the German bride of Crown Prince
Nicholas. In 1841 he left Russia never to return, and died in
Baden-Baden in 1852. His body was taken to Russia, where he was buried
by the side of Karamzín.
Sir John Bowring gives in _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I.:
_The Mariner_, _Æolus’s Harp Song (Say, ye gentle breezes, say)_,
_Romance_; in Part II.: _The Minstrel in the Russian Camp_,
_Svyetlána_ (under the name of _Catherine_), _Theon and Æschines_,
_The Bard_; a prose version of _Svyetlána_, under the name of
_Christmas Omens_, by W. D. Lewis, was given in The Atlantic Souvenir,
Philadelphia, 1828; another translation, under the title of _The Eve
of St. Silvester_, from the Russian of Tzobovsk (?), by J. C. M., was
given in Dublin University Magazine, vol. xxxi., 1848; C. T. Wilson,
in _Russian Lyrics_, gives _The Flower_, extract from _The Minstrel in
the Russian Camp, Svyetlána_; in the Library of the World’s Best
Literature are given N. H. Dole’s translations of _Happiness in
Slumber_ and _The Coming of Spring Night_.
SVYETLÁNA[3]
St. Silvester’s evening hour
Calls the maidens round:
Shoes to throw behind the door,
Delve the snowy ground.
Peep behind the window there,
Burning wax to pour;
And the corn for chanticleer
Reckon three times o’er.
In the water-fountain fling
Solemnly the golden ring,
Earrings, too, of gold;
Kerchief white must cover them
While we ’re chanting over them
Magic songs of old.
Feebly through the vapours shine
Moonbeams on the hill;
Silently sat Catherine,
Sorrowful and still.
“Maiden, why so pensive? We
Fain thy voice would hear--
Come and join our revelry!
Take the ring, thou dear!
Sing, ‘Make haste and melt, and bring,
Goldsmith! Come with golden ring,
Golden wreath for Kate!
Ring to deck her hand of snow,
Wreath to bloom upon her brow
At the altar-gate.’”
“I can sing no choral song
While my love ’s away,
For my days are sad and long,--
Gloomier every day.
Left alone,--a year is past,--
Not a line to send,--
Oh, my life is but a waste,
Severed from my friend!
Hast thou then forgotten me?
Tell me, wanderer! can it be?
Where ’s thy dwelling, where?
See, I pine ’neath secret smart:
Guardian angel! Watch my heart,--
Listen to my prayer!”
Covered with a napkin white,
Stood a table there,
Where a mirror, clear and bright,
Shone amidst the glare.
Vacant seats for two were placed,--
“Look within, O look!
’T is the hour of spirits,--haste!
Read Fate’s opening book:
To the mirror turn thy eye,
And the door shall silently
Open,--list, ’t is he!
Gently shall thy lover glide,
Seat him by his maiden’s side,
And shall sup with thee.”
Cath’rine sat before the glass,--
All alone was she,
Watching all the shades that pass,
Shuddering inwardly.
But the glass is dark and drear,
Still as death the room;
Scarce a fading taper there
Flitted midst the gloom.
Oh, how fear her bosom shook!
Backwards then she dared not look!
Dread had dimmed her sight:
And the dying taper’s noise,
And the cricket’s chirping voice,
Cried,--“’T is middle-night!”
Breathless terror chilled her o’er,
And she shades her brow:--
List! a knock is at the door,
And it opens now:
To the mirror then she turned,
Stupefied with fear;
There two brilliant eyeballs burned,
Ever bent on her.
Horror heaved her breast, when lo!
Gentle accents, sweet and slow,
Glided on her ear:
“All thy wishes are fulfilled,--
All thy spirit’s sighs be stilled,--
’T is thy lover, dear!”
Cath’rine looked--her lover’s arm
Was around her thrown:
“Maiden! Banish all alarm,
We are ever one!
Come! the priest is waiting now,
Life with life to blend;
Torches in the chapel glow,
Bridal songs ascend.”
Cath’rine smiled,--her lover led,--
O’er the snow-clad court they sped,
And the portals gain;
There a ready sledge they found,--
Two fleet coursers stamp the ground,
Struggling with the rein.
Onwards! Like the wind they go,
When the storm awakes,
Scattering round them clouds of snow,
While the pathway shakes.
All was dark and wild as night,
Terrible and new;
Mist-wreaths dimmed the pale moon’s light,
Plains were drenched in dew.
Fear again possessed the maid,
And in gentlest tones she said,
“Speak, my lover true!”
He was silent then, but soon
Turned him to the wintry moon,--
Pale and paler grew.
Through the snow, a mountain’s height,
Next the wild steeds passed;
And a church appeared in sight,
Midst a gloomy waste;
Then a whirlwind burst the door--
Men are there who mourn;
Clouds of incense rolling o’er,
Wax and taper burn.
Lo! a black sepulchral shroud--
“Dust to dust!” the priest aloud
Chants,--the horses flew
Tow’rds the door,--her agony
Rose,--he spoke no word,--but he
Pale and paler grew.
Clouds of snow ascend again--
Lo! the coursers fly;
And a raven on the plain
Croaks and passes by;
’T was an awful, ominous sound!
And the moonlight wanes;
Darkness wraps the desert round
O’er the steaming manes.
See! a glimmering light is there,
And upon the heather bare
Stands a humble shed.
Swifter, swifter flew the car,
Whirled the snow around it far,
But no farther sped.
At the door they stopped anon,
There, a moment stood:--
Steeds, sledge, bridegroom,--all are gone:
All is solitude.
Cath’rine on the waste was left,
Midst dense clouds of snow,
Of her lover now bereft,
To commune with woe:
But she hears a footstep now,
Turns, and sees a taper glow,
Crosses her, and stalks
Trembling to the door, and knocks:--
Of itself the door unlocks,--
In the maiden walks.
There, upon a winding-sheet,
Lay a mortal bier;
Christ’s bright image at its feet
Shone resplendent there.
Whither, whither art thou come,
Maiden, all unblest?
Thou hast sought a wretched home,
Art a hapless guest!
Cath’rine to the image flies,
Wipes the snow-dust from her eyes,
Bends her down and weeps;
Presses to her breast the cross,--
Thoughts of heaven her soul engross,
And she silence keeps.
All is still!--The storm is hushed,
Faint the tapers beam,
Light across the chamber rushed,--
Momentary gleam:--
All is wrapped in silence deep
As when visions come.
List! what gentle rustlings sweep
Through the hallowed room:
Lo! a dart of silvery white,
Soft and still, with eyes of light,
Tow’rds the mourners springs:
For a moment hovers there,
Then upon her bosom fair
Flaps its beauteous wings.
Silence reigned again.--Can all,
All illusion be?
Lo! the corpse beneath the pall
Shudders fearfully:
Burst the mantling bier of death,
Throws his shroudings by:
On his brow he wore a wreath,
Frozen was his eye:
From his lips a murmur breaks,
With his hand a sign he makes,
Pointing to the maid:
Trembling she,--she dared not move,--
But the bright and silver dove
On her bosom played;
Fanned her with its gentle wing:--
To the dead man’s breast
Then she saw her sweet dove spring,--
There it seemed to rest.
Heaved the icy corpse a sigh,
As in dark despair,
Gnashed his teeth in agony,
Turned his eyes on her.
Paler waxed those lips so pale;
And the fixed eye told the tale
That life’s film was broke.
Cath’rine! Lift thy drooping head!
All is o’er,--thy lover’s dead!--
God!--and she awoke.
Where?--within the selfsame room
Where the mirror stood:--
Morn was chasing twilight’s gloom
With its golden flood;
Chanticleer had clapped his wing,
Sung his early song:
All is bright,--the matin rings,--
Oh, thy dream was long!
Long indeed, and dreadful too;
And my spirit long shall rue
The dread prophecy!
Tell me, Future’s misty night,
Shall my fate be dark or bright,
Bliss or misery?
Cath’rine in the window sat,
Sorrowful and still:
Tell me, tell me what is that?--
Mist-cloud on the hill?
In the sunbeams shines the snow;
Leaps the frozen dew:
List! I hear the bells below,
And the horses too.
Lo! they come, the sledge is near,--
Now the driver’s voice I hear,--
They have passed the grove:--
Fling the gates wide open, fling--
Who ’s the guest the coursers bring?
Who?--’T is thou, my love!
Cath’rine, tell me now! The dream--
Is the dream forgot?
Youths may faithful be who seem
Faithless,--may they not?
When the light of love hath lent
Brightness to his eye;
When his lips are eloquent;--
Timid maid! Reply!
Open now the temple-gate,
Spring on wings of joy elate,
Truth, we honour thee!
Pour the glass, and join the hymn,
Ne’er may days of darkness dim
Youth’s fidelity.
Thou dost smile, sweet maid! But deem,
Deem it worth a thought,
For that memorable dream
Stores of wisdom brought.
Thou dost smile again,--but know,
It had lessons holy:
Fame, it told thee, was but--show;
Worldly wisdom--folly.
This my song was meant to say,
Hope and trust should guide our way,
Maid! there ’s no mistaking:
This the genuine moral seems,
Miseries are only dreams.
Joy--is the awaking.
O my Cath’rine! never dwell
On that dream of gloom:
Heaven! build up her citadel,
There may grief ne’er come,
Not a cloud her joy o’ershade,
Not a joy decay;
Holy is that gentle maid
As the light of day.
Ne’er be it obscured by woe,
Let her days of comfort flow
Like a forest river!
And let joy, with smiles serene,
Be as it hath ever been,
Her bright guide for ever!
--From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part
II.
[3] Changed by Sir John Bowring in the poem to Catherine.
THE MINSTREL IN THE RUSSIAN CAMP
Now silence wraps the battlefield!
The tents with lights are gleaming;
And lo! the bright moon’s silver shield
In the calm heaven is beaming.
Fill, fill the glass of rapture yet
In unity full-hearted;
In wine the bloody strife forget,
The grief for the departed!
The glasses’ ruby stream to drain
Is glory’s pride and pleasure--
Wine! conqueror thou of care and pain,
Thou art the hero’s treasure.
Now to the warriors of old time,
The strong in fight and glory!
These warriors and their deeds sublime
Are lost in distant story!
The grave hath gathered up their dust,
Their homes,--the storm hath razed them;
Their helmets are devoured by rust,
And silent those who praised them:
But in their children live their fires,
We tread the land that bore them,
And see the shadows of our sires
With all their triumphs o’er them.
Oh, come! in all your brightness, come,
And smile complacent, near us;
Look from your high and misty home,
Encourage us and hear us.
O Svyatosláv! time’s injured son,
Thy path an eagle’s flying:
“There is no shame in dying--On!
There is no shame in dying!”
And Donskóy, thou! courageous man,
Midst heathen foes we find thee;
Destruction leading in thy van,
And naught but death behind thee.
Thou, Peter! thou, the hero’s crown,
“Poltáva!” is repeated:
Thy foes have thrown their sabres down,
Thee, all the world has greeted.
What? Robbers, would you build your throne
Upon our cities’ ruin?
Thy horse and rider fell--begone!
For vengeance is pursuing.
Go hide thee in thy native woods,
There by ambition smother;
Fate drives thee to their solitudes,
Yes! thou, the rebel’s brother.
Who is that white-haired hero, who
That northern more than Roman?
His penetrating glance looks through
The phalanx of the foeman;
From yonder clouds what shadowy rows
Are tow’rds his footsteps turning?
The spirits of the Alpine snows
Are wailing loud and mourning.
Franks and Sarmatians, at his view,
Death’s icy paleness borrow;
Well they may fear him, well may rue,--
It is the great Suvórov!
Hail, sons of ages long gone by!
Your glories are recorded;
We follow you to victory,
Like you to be rewarded.
We see your ranks,--they lead us on,--
The foe retreats before us;
We scatter death, as ye have done,
While ye are smiling o’er us.
Drawn sword, and flowing glass, elate
We look to our Creator!
“And death for death, and hate for hate,
And curses on the traitor.”
This glass then to our country’s joys,
Ne’er may our hearts feel colder;
The scenes of mirth while we were boys,
Of love, when we grew older!
Our country’s plains, our country’s sky,
The streams that flow beneath it;
The memories of infancy,
And all the thoughts that wreathe it
With joyous hopes and visions blest,--
Dear shrine of our affection,
How glows our heart, how beats our breast,
When beams the recollection!
That is our country, there our home,
There wife and babes attend us;
And oft their prayers towards us roam,
And oft to Heaven commend us!
There dwell our plighted, chosen ones;
How bright their memory flashes!
Our monarchs’ dust, our monarchs’ thrones,
And there our fathers’ ashes.
For them we fight, for them we rove,
For them have all forsaken;
And may our land’s undying love
In our sons’ breasts awaken!
Now to the Tsar that rules the Russ,
And be his sceptre glorious;
His throne an altar is to us,--
We swear to be victorious.
The oath is heard,--’t is stamped in blood,--
’T is sworn,--there ’s no returning;
Our swords shall make our promise good,
Our hearts with love are burning.
Each Russ a son of victory,
To duty’s ranks we throng us;
Let every craven coward fly,
For fear was ne’er among us.
────────────────────────────────────
One glass to vengeance! In the fray
“Heaven for the right!” our voices,
And “death or victory!” proudly say;
And victory’s self rejoices.
Oh, count not on your numbers, foe!
In vain ye boast your numbers;
Our march is like the torrent’s flow,
Which never, never slumbers.
We have no treasures, but we bring
Our arrows and our lances,
And round us desolation fling,
And death is in our glances.
The Robber! he had spread his power
Around our Moskvá’s borders;
And from our Kremlin’s sacred tower
He issued forth his orders.
“I trample on the base-born clay,
Which folly’s pride assembles,
And prince and subject both obey.”
Insulting one!--he trembles.
For Vengeance wakes her from her rest,
And arms her with her torches,
Heaves ruin on the tyrant’s breast,
And drives him from our porches.
Now bring thy slavish princes, now,
To our ice-girded nation;
And lead them o’er our paths of snow
To horror and starvation.
Come, Winter! rouse thee from thy bed,
And close our country’s portals.
Oh, see! he strews the land with dead,
With piles of frozen mortals.
Now, Robber! look what thou hast done;
Come, for the strife prepare thee!
The land we fight on is our own,--
God’s vengeance, wretch, is near thee!
--From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part
II.
Iván Ivánovich Kozlóv. (1779-1840.)
After having served for some time in the army, Kozlóv in 1798 entered
the Civil Service, living in Moscow and later in St. Petersburg. In
1818 he was struck by paralysis, which deprived him of the use of his
legs, and three years later he became totally blind. Though he had
long been on friendly terms with Zhukóvski, he never thought of
devoting himself to literature. But the calamity that had overtaken
him compelled him to concentrate himself, and the result was the
evolution of his poetical genius. He had learned French and Italian
before, and, though blind, acquired the German and English languages
so perfectly that he could recite by heart whole pages from the great
writers, whom he also translated into Russian. His first poetical
efforts were some verses in praise of Zhukóvski and Byron, but he
gained his great reputation by his _The Black Monk_, written in 1824,
which enjoyed the same popularity among the sentimental souls of the
twenties that _Poor Líza_ (see p. 27) had had in the beginning of the
century. This was soon followed by _Princess Natálya Borísovna
Dolgorúki_ (see vol. i., p. 233) and a large number of minor poems
that are distinguished for their elegiac and deep religious tone.
In W. D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_, Philadelphia, 1841, is
given his _Solitude_; T. B. Shaw translated his _Kíev_ in Blackwood’s
Edinburgh Magazine, 1844; in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_ are given
_The Village Orphan_, _The Wreck_, _The Dream of the Betrothed_, and
_Chernetz (The Black Monk)_; in the Library of the World’s Best
Literature is N. H. Dole’s translation of _The Vesper Bells_.
SOLITUDE
Upon a hill, which rears itself midst plains extending wide,
Fair flourishes a lofty oak in beauty’s blooming pride;
This lofty oak in solitude its branches wide expands,
All lonesome on the cheerless height like sentinel it stands.
Whom can it lend its friendly shade, should Sol with fervour glow?
And who can shelter it from harm, should tempests rudely blow?
No bushes green, entwining close, here deck the neighbouring ground,
No tufted pines beside it grow, no osiers thrive around.
Sad e’en to trees their cheerless fate in solitude if grown,
And bitter, bitter is the lot for youth to live alone!
Though gold and silver much is his, how vain the selfish pride!
Though crowned with glory’s laurelled wreath, with whom that crown
divide?
When I with an acquaintance meet he scarce a bow affords,
And beauties, half saluting me, but grant some transient words.
On some I look myself with dread, whilst others from me fly,
But sadder still the uncherished soul when Fate’s dark hour draws nigh;
Oh! where my aching heart relieve when griefs assail me sore?
My friend, who sleeps in the cold earth, comes to my aid no more!
No relatives, alas! of mine in this strange clime appear,
No wife imparts love’s fond caress, sweet smile, or pitying tear;
No father feels joy’s thrilling throb, as he our transport sees;
No gay and sportive little ones come clambering on my knees;--
Take back all honours, wealth and fame, the heart they cannot move,
And give instead the smiles of friends, the tender look of love!
--From W. D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_.
KÍEV
O Kíev! where religion ever seemeth
To light existence in our native land;
Where o’er Pechérski’s dome the bright cross gleameth,
Like some fair star, that still in heaven doth stand;
Where, like a golden sheet, around thee streameth
Thy plain, and meads that far away expand;
And by thy hoary well, with ceaseless motion,
Old Dnieper’s foaming swell sweeps on to ocean.
How oft to thee in spirit have I panted,
O holy city, country of my heart!
How oft, in vision, have I gazed enchanted
On thy fair towers,--a sainted thing thou art!--
By Lávra’s[4] walls or Dnieper’s wave, nor wanted
A spell to draw me from this life apart;
In thee my country I behold, victorious,
Holy and beautiful, and great and glorious.
The moon her soft ray on Pechérski poureth,
Its domes are shining in the river’s wave;
The soul the spirit of the past adoreth,
Where sleeps beneath thee many a holy grave:
Vladímir’s shade above thee calmly soareth,
Thy towers speak of the sainted and the brave;
Afar I gaze, and all in dreamy splendour
Breathes of the past,--a spell sublime and tender.
There fought the warriors in the field of glory,
Strong in the faith, against their country’s foe;
And many a royal flower yon palace hoary,
In virgin loveliness, hath seen to blow.
And Boyán sang to them the noble story,
And secret rapture in their breast did glow;
Hark! midnight sounds,--that brazen voice is dying,--
A day to meet the vanished day is flying.
Where are the valiant?--the resistless lances,--
The brands that were as lightning when they waved?
Where are the beautiful, whose sunny glances
Our fathers, with such potency, enslaved?
Where is the bard, whose song no more entrances?
Ah! that deep bell hath answered what I craved:
And thou alone, by these grey walls, O river!
Murmurest, Dnieper, still, and flow’st for ever.
--Transl. by T. B. Shaw, in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, 1844
(vol. lv).
[4] Name of certain monasteries.
FROM “THE BLACK MONK”
I.--THE MONASTERY
Beyond Kíev, where the broad Dnieper boils and booms between steep
banks, near a grove, upon a high hill, stands the hermits’ abode. Around
it is a crenelated wall, with four towers in the corners, and in the
midst,--the temple of the Lord with gilded cupolas. A row of cells, a
dark corridor, a chapel at the holy gates, with a miracle-working image,
and nearby a spring of cool water, whose medicinal stream bubbles under
the shade of a century linden tree.
The evening darkness is in the misty field; the twilight is dimming in
the heavens; the song is not heard in the meadows; the flocks are not
seen in the vales. The horn will not be blown in the forest,--no one
will come; only at times the bell tinkles in the distance upon the
highway; no fires are to be seen upon the fishermen’s boats on the
Dnieper. The midnight moon has risen, and the bright stars are shining;
the clearings, the woods, the waters are asleep. The fateful hour has
struck upon the tower,--the hermitage is merged in sleep,--and all
around is peace and quiet.
II.--THE CONFESSION OF THE BLACK MONK
“I left my deserted country. Alone, in despair, in tears, I wandered
around with my orphaned soul in distant defiles and woods. Gloomy clefts
and mountains heard my groan, my wail, my plaints with terror, for seven
years. Sullen, melancholy, wild, I pined away, dreaming an old dream,
and sobbed for what is not. The shades of night, the mountain torrent,
the whistling of the storm and the howl of the wind secretly united with
my murky thought, with my unquenchable yearning. And sorrow was a
delight, a sacred relic of former days; it seemed to me that through my
suffering I did not altogether part from it.
“Where the heart loves, where it suffers,--there is also our merciful
God; He gives the cross, and He also sends us hope with the cross. In
these seven hard, stormy years there has flashed for me a consoling
light. Once, at evening tide, I sat gloomy near the river; the
star-flaming vault of heaven, the quiet glimmer of the moon, the
rustling of the leaves, the plashing of the waves silvered by the moon,
involuntarily held my soul captive. Everything attracted me by its
mysterious beauty to a world of bliss.
“My crushed spirit awoke: ‘Creator of all! My babe with my unforgettable
mate dwell in Thy holy abode, and, perchance, I shall be with them, and
they there for ever mine!’ Love understands miracles: my heart trembled
hopefully in some mysterious expectation. I lifted my eyes to the skies,
dared to implore them with tears,--and it seemed to me that for an
answer was given me that calm ocean with its imperishable stars. Since
then, my father, have I found consolation in my misery itself, and I
have hoped by my heavy cross to earn my union with her. Though still, at
times, I shed tears, yet hope assuages them, and quiet grief has taken
place of bitter sorrow. Flaming with faith, I have forgotten my
misfortune and the villain: she with her babe in heaven appeared to my
heart in dreams of paradise. My soul rose to her, and my mind was full
of this: I wished to be as pure as she, and I gladly bid life farewell.
But I wanted to die in my native home. I began to pine away in mountains
of other lands. I wanted to cast my last glance upon our woods and our
dales, to see the country which was full of her, and our village house,
and the garden, and the blue waves of the Dnieper, and the church upon
the mound where in the shade of the birches sleeps their dust, and the
glowing evening sky over their quiet grave.
“Ah, what happened to my soul when suddenly, in all its sacred beauty,
before me lay the landscape of my native Kíev fields! As before they
were green, the waves of the Dnieper boomed as formerly, the same forest
lay dim in the distance, the same songs were sung in the fields, and
everything was the same in my native land, but she alone was not there.
Everywhere familiar valleys, brooks, mounds, and plains, in an
enchanting quiet, appeared to me on all sides, and brought back my
brighter years; but with a poisoned soul, a stranger in my own land, I
greeted them with tears and disconsolate melancholy.
“I walked. The day was inclining to the evening, and suddenly a rustic
temple of the Lord stood before my frightened eyes. Beside myself, I
approached the grave where my son, my wife,--my whole life lay buried. I
barely touched the ground with my feet, as if fearing to disturb their
eternal slumber. I repressed a deep groan within my breast, that their
rest be not broken. My saddened spirit dared not give vent to my
impassioned agitation. It seemed to me that upon their grave I breathed
a sacred air. A wondrous feeling came over me, and with an unearthly
hope I softly bent my knees, and prayed, and wept, and loved.”
Konstantín Nikoláevich Bátyushkov. (1787-1855.)
Bátyushkov received his education in the boarding-schools of St.
Petersburg, from which he took away a good knowledge of French,
German, and Italian, and little else, especially since all his
schooling ended with his sixteenth year. He was then ushered into the
circle of literary men by a relative of his, M. N. Muravév (see vol.
i. p. 395), who also interested him in the ancient classics, among
whom Bátyushkov admired most and imitated Horace and Tibullus. In 1806
he was seized by the prevailing patriotic enthusiasm, after the
disaster of Austerlitz, and joined the army. He was seriously wounded,
but in 1813 he again took part in the campaign against Napoleon.
During his stay in Germany he became intimately acquainted with the
German literature, which he began to prefer to the French and Latin.
He returned to Russia over England and Sweden. In 1818 he received a
diplomatic post at Naples, which gave him an opportunity of making
himself familiar with the country of his beloved author, Tasso. He
soon returned home, where he was up to his death, for a period of
thirty-three years, lost to Russian letters, having, like his mother
before him, become hopelessly insane. No other poet had given such
promise as Bátyushkov, and even Púshkin regarded him as his teacher.
His fame rests mainly on his _Dying Tasso_ and _The Friend’s Shadow_,
the Anacreontic character of the other poems and the absence of a
Russian motive having otherwise almost obliterated his fame.
In Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I., there
is a translation of his _To My Penates_, and in Part II., _To F. F.
Kokoshkin_, _The Farewell_, _The Friend’s Shadow_, _Love in a Boat_,
_The Prisoner_, _To the Rhine_. What purports to be a translation of
his _Dying Tasso_ is given in The Foreign Quarterly Review, 1832.
THE FRIEND’S SHADOW
From Albion’s misty isle across the waves I sped me:
It looked as if interred beneath a leaden sea,
And gathering round our bark the halcyon’s music led me,
While all the crew rejoiced in their sweet melody.
The dancing surge, the evening breezes falling,
And through the sails and shrouds those breezes whistling thrill,
And to the watch the active helmsman calling,
The watch, who, midst the roar, sleeps tranquilly and still.
All seemed to rock itself to gentle thought;
Like an enchanted one, I, from the mast, looked forth,
And through the night and through the mist I sought,
I sought the star beloved of my domestic north.
Then into memory melted every feeling,--
My soul had sanctified my home of joy and peace,
And the sea raging, and the zephyrs gently stealing,
Covered my eyelids o’er with self-forgetfulness.
Then dreams with other dreams were blended,
And lo!--there stood, was it a dream?--the form
Of that dear friend who his career had ended
Nobly, amidst the thundering battle storm.
He stood upon the mist, and smiled,--his face,
Fresh as the morn and bloodless, shining
Like the young spring in gaiety and grace,
Even as an angel from high heaven declining:--
“Comrade of better time! and is it thou?
And is it thou?” I cried, “thou hero bright!
Did I not in the fury of the fight
Attend thee, and when thou hadst fallen below
Make thy new grave,--and on a neighbouring tree
Write with my sword thy feats of bravery,
And followed thy cold ashes to their bed,
And hallowed it with prayers, and with tears waterèd?
Speak, unforgotten one, speak! Was it a deceit?
Is all that ’s past a dream, a cheating dream?
A dream that corpse, a dream that grave, that sheet
Wrapt round thee,--were they not? did they but seem?
Oh, but one word! Let that tongue’s melody
Yet sweetly fall on my transported ear:
O unforgotten one! Stretch out to me
Thy old right hand of friendship, stretch it here!”
I sprung towards him,--Oh! the mists had dimmed my eye,--
He vanished like a shade, a lock of airy smoke,--
Dispersed in the wide azure of the sky,
And I, arousing from my dream, awoke.
Beneath the wing of stillness all was sleeping;
The very winds, the very waves at rest;
And scarce a breath upon the sea was creeping;
The pale moon swam along upon the white cloud’s breast.
But I was troubled, peace had left my soul,--
I stretched my hands tow’rds him, whom I no more could see,--
I called on him, whom I could not control,--
On thee, beloved one! best of friends, on thee!
--From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part
II.
THE DYING TASSO
What solemnity does ancient Rome prepare? Whither rush the nation’s
noisy waves? For whom these fragrant fumes of incense and of myrrh, and
everywhere the vases full of odorous herbs? Wherefore above the streets
of the universal city, from the Tiber’s banks up to the Capitol, midst
flowers and laurels, are fluttering costly carpets and the purple?
Wherefore this noise? Wherefore the timbrel’s sound and thunder? Is it
of gladness or of victory the herald? Why with the standard gains the
house of prayer the mitred apostolic vicar? For whom this glittering
crown he holds,--a priceless gift of grateful Rome? For whom this
triumph? For thee, immortal singer, for thee this gift, O singer of
“Jerusalem.”
The din of joy has reached the cell where in death agony Torquato lies,
where o’er the sufferer’s immortal head is borne the spirit of wingèd
death. Neither tears of friendship, nor the prayers of the monks, nor
honours’ tardy due,--these will not curb indomitable fate that spares
not even the great. Half-shattered, he sees the threatening hour, hails
it with joy, and,--alluring swan!--bids life good-bye and utters these
last words:
“My friends, let me behold Rome the magnificent, where an untimely grave
awaits the poet, that my eyes may see your hills and smoke, O ancient
hearths of the Quirites! O sacred ground of miracles and heroes! O
glorious ruins and O glorious dust! Azure and purple of cloudless skies,
you poplars, ancient olives, and thou, eternal Tiber, wellspring of all
the nations, grave of the bones of the world’s citizens,--you, you I
greet within these sombre walls, where I lie doomed to an untimely end!
“’T is done! I stand o’er the abyss of destiny, shall not applauded
reach the Capitol, and laurels of fame upon my feeble head will not
assuage the singer’s bitter fate. From earliest youth a shuttlecock of
men, I was an exile from my very childhood; a poor wanderer under the
voluptuous heaven of my Italy, I have experienced all vicissitudes of
fate. Where was my bark not borne by the waves? Where found it rest?
Where wet I not my daily bread with tears of grief? Sorrento! cradle of
my luckless days, where in the night, like terrified Ascanius, I was
bereft by destiny of my mother, of her soft embraces and
caresses,--rememberest thou how many tears I shed while still a child?
Alas! since then, a prey of evil fate, all sorrows I have learned, all
misery of existence. The depths by Fortune furrowed were cleft below me,
and the thunder never silenced. Driven from vill to vill, from land to
land, I sought in vain a refuge upon earth: its unrelenting finger saw I
everywhere, and everywhere its lightnings struck the bard! Neither in
the humble ploughman’s hut, nor under cover of Alfonso’s palace, nor in
the quiet of the lowliest shelter, nor forest tangle, nor mountains, was
my head secure, the exile’s head, by shame and fame oppressed, and from
the cradle a victim of the goddess of the doom.
“Friends, what wrings so terribly my breast? What gnaws my heart, and
keeps it in a flutter? Whence have I come? What awful journey have I
made? What glimmers there behind me in the dark?
Ferrara----furies----and the snake of envy! Whither, whither, murderers
of genius? I ’m in the haven; ’t is Rome. Here are my family, my
brothers! Here are their tears and sweet caresses,--and Virgil’s crown
here in the Capitol!
“Yes, I have done Apollo’s bidding: his zealous priest from earliest
youth, I sang, midst lightnings, under raging skies, the fame and
majesty of bygone days. My soul, though fettered, never changed; the
rapture of the sweet-voiced Muses never died in me, and through my
sufferings my genius grew strong. It dwelt in the land of miracles, O
Sion, by thy walls, on Jordan’s flowery banks; and it communed with
thee, rebellious Cedron, and thee, peaceful retreats of Lebanon! ’T is
there the heroes of the ancient days rose from the dead, in the majesty
and glow of their grim glory. It beheld thee, Godfrey, ruler, lord of
kings, majestic, calm, while arrows whizzed; and thee, youthful Rinaldo,
fervid like Achilles and a happy victor in love and war. It saw thee
flying o’er the corpses of the foeman’s host, like fire, like death,
like the destroying angel,--and Tartarus vanquished by the gleaming
cross!
“O models of unheard-of valour! O holy triumph and victory of the pure
faith of our ancestors now long asleep! Torquato extricated you from the
abyss of time: he sang,--and you will never be forgotten; he sang: to
him a wreath of immortality has been decreed, wound by the hands of
Muses and of Glory. Too late: I stand o’er the abyss of destiny, shall
not applauded reach the Capitol, and laurels of fame upon my feeble head
will not assuage the singer’s bitter fate!”
He stopped. A sombre light glowed in his eyes, the final ray of genius
before its death; it seemed, the dying wished to snatch one day of
triumph from the Parcæ; his eyes sought eagerly the Capitolian walls; he
tried his best to raise himself but lay, exhausted from the dreadful
torment of his agony, immovable upon his bed. Day’s luminary was gliding
to the west, and merged in blood-red glow; the hour of death was
near----the sufferer’s gloomy brow was now agleam with its last light.
Refreshed by the evening coolness, he raised his right hand to the
hearkening heavens, like a righteous man, with hope and joy:
“See,” he addressed his sobbing friends, “the royal luminary flaming in
the west! ’T is he, ’t is he who calls me to the cloudless lands where
glows the eternal light----. The angel stands before me to guide me on;
he shades me with his azure pinions----. Give me Love’s token, this
mysterious cross----. Pray in hope and tears----all earthly things are
vanishing----and glory and the crown----the sublime creations of the
Arts and Muses: all is there eternal as the Lord, the Giver of the crown
of immortal glory! There is all the great my spirit fed upon, and I did
from my cradle breathe. O brothers, friends! weep not o’er me: your
friend has reached at last the longed-for goal. He’ll pass away in peace
and, strong in faith, will not perceive his cruel end: there, there----.
O bliss! ’midst virtuous women and ’midst angels Eleanor will meet him!”
And with the name of love the godly passed away; his friends sobbed
speechless o’er him. Daylight softly died away----the bell’s voice
spread the melancholy news down to the streets: “Dead is our Torquato!”
Rome cried in tears: “Dead is the bard who has deserved a better
fate!”---- The dawn perceived a sombre smoke of torches, and in mourning
shrouded was the Capitol.
Fédor Nikoláevich Glínka. (1788-1880.)
Glínka was born in the Government of Smolénsk and was educated in the
First Cadet Corps, which he left in 1803 as lieutenant. He took part
in the campaign of the Russian army against Napoleon in the Austrian
possessions, serving as adjutant under Milorádovich. He described his
experience in his _Letters of a Russian Officer_, which is a
remarkable production for a young man of nineteen. After his return he
devoted himself to literature, both prose and poetry. His poems
attracted much attention on account of their sincerity and the
harmoniousness of their verses. In 1869 he published a collection of
_Spiritual Songs_.
In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_ are given _The Appearance of the
Unknown_, _The Search for God_, and _Moscow_. N. H. Dole has
translated his _Moscow_ (publication unascertainable).
MOSCOW
Wondrous city, ancient city,
Thou enfoldest in thy walls
Villages and smiling suburbs,
Churches, palaces and halls.
Thou art girt by grassy meadows,
Gay with gardens, rich in flowers;
Seven the hills are which thou crownest
With thy temples, with thy towers.
Thou unfoldest like a parchment
Written by a giant hand,
And beside thy little river
Thou art glorious now and grand.
Many are thine ancient churches
Towering like the northern pine;
Where can eye see streets so noble,
Mother Moscow, as are thine?
Capture Moscow’s mighty Kreml?
Who on earth would boast the power?
Who could rob the golden bonnet
From the slender Iván tower?
Who could ever swing the Tsar-bell,
Or the Tsar-gun overthrow?
Reverence at the sacred gateway
Who could ever fail to show?
In thine awful hour of peril,
When thy haughty neck was bent,
All thy children, men of Russia,
Felt with thee the punishment.
White-walled city, thou wast chastened
Like a martyr in the fire;
And thy river, boiling, hastened
Onward to escape the pyre.
Once a captive and dishonoured,
In thine embers thou didst lie!
Now arisen from thine ashes
Changeless, lift thy head on high!
Flourish through the countless ages,
Moscow! many-towered town.
Thou art central heart of Russia,
Russia’s glory, Russia’s crown!
--Transl. by N. H. Dole (publication not ascertainable).
THE SEARCH FOR GOD
The heavens grow dark before mine eyes,
The earth gives out a groaning sound;
The stormy blasts in fury rise,
And all obstructions quick confound;
They drive apart hills with their foot,
Huge trees they pluck up by the root:
I call on God with loudest tone,--
God is not in the tempest known.
As I behold, the meadows fair
Are breaking into mound and vale;
The earth is shaking everywhere,
The rocks roll down the hills like hail;
Dense clouds of smoke the sight appall,
With trembling voice on God I call,--
But in the earthquake’s fearful round
His holy footsteps are not found.
On novel wonders still I gaze;
The vaults of heaven with lightning blaze,
The flames burst forth on every side,
And onwards rush,--a raging tide,--
Stirring the mind with direst fear,--
But not in fire does God appear.
Fair peace succeeds: the perfect calm
My prescient spirit fills with balm;
Like the young morn with glimmering light,
So burns with haze of silver bright
The presence pure of God:
The soul, responsive to the strain,
Breathes with unearthly life again;
Sweet stillness settles on the scene,
And, though deep distance intervene,
God’s voice is heard abroad.
--From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_.
Prince Petr Andréevich Vyázemski. (1792-1878.)
Prince Vyázemski was one of the very few literary men in Russia whose
career began before that of Púshkin and who were still active at a
time when Tolstóy and Dostoévski had established their reputations.
His father, dying, left him in charge of Karamzín, to whom he was
related by marriage. Through him, Prince Vyázemski was early brought
in contact with the literary circle, meeting there on a friendly
footing Zhukóvski, Bátyushkov, and Púshkin. He took part in the
campaign of 1812, and at Borodinó two horses were shot under him. He
later occupied various posts, and was made Associate Minister of
Public Instruction and a Senator in 1855. His literary works have
lately been collected in twelve large volumes, and yet, in spite of
his great talent as a satirist, critic, and lyricist, he has fallen
into oblivion. The cause of this is that he persevered in the
pseudo-classic, sentimental attitude of the school of Karamzín, while
the Romantic spirit of Púshkin’s time touched him but lightly, and the
realism of the period after the forties entrenched him only more in
his old habits and confirmed him in his hostility to everything that
departed from the code of Karamzín.
Sir John Bowring gives in Part II. of the _Specimens of the Russian
Poets_ translations of his _To My Three Absent Friends_, _To N. N._,
and _Fragment_; John Pollen, in the _Rhymes from the Russian_, has
translated his _Troika_. An epigram of his is given by V. E. Marsden
in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 9.
THE SAMOVÁR
’T is pleasant, having strayed abroad, to find a familiar picture of
native customs, homelike bread-and-salt, a hospitable roof, a retreat, a
sacred retreat of your country’s Lares for the soul that is crusted by
the ice in the chill sea of the world, where to a native question there
is no native answer; where life is but an empty exchange of ceremonial
words; where you are only a stranger and only Monsieur N. ’T is pleasant
to warm yourself in a quiet haven and with confidence to look into
friends’ faces, eagerly to listen to the discourse in which there is
something familiar to the soul and a message from bygone days.
A wanderer’s days are like unto displaced pages: a teasing, malicious
spirit disrupts them,--there is no connection: each day you live anew,
yet life is only good through traditions of love, oneness of beliefs and
feelings, concord of impressions, and a gentle antiqueness of customary
relations. Our mind is cosmopolitan, but our heart home-bound: the mind
pleases itself in ever treading new paths, and has all its joys in the
future; but the heart grows young with old dreams, the heart lives on
old habits and blooms more gladly in the shadow of the past. Oh, be
blessed, roof of light and refuge, where, like a relative, the guest of
the moment has been received, where carelessly he could unfold his
heart, and for a time deceive his orphanhood! Where consciously and
sympathetically he partook of the dear family’s harmony and happiness,
and saw the young joys of the parents’ souls blooming in a cloudless
calm----.
But we are drawn even by another mysterious power to that familiar
retreat where, with usual kindness, the loving family waits for us at
the table. I love that hour,--almost the best of the day,--a poetic hour
’midst the prose of rude days, a sincere hour of life, a joyous interval
’twixt the labour of the day and the deep sleep of the night. All
accounts are cast,--in the balance we live: there are no cares of life,
nay, have not been; _to-day_ has vanished from your shoulders,
_to-morrow_ is not yet. Hour of friendly discourse at the tea table!
Honour and praise to the young hostess! Right Orthodoxly, not in German
fashion, not thin like water or childish drink, but redolent with
Russia, juicy and thick, the fragrant tea flows in an amber stream.
Very well! But I find one thing lacking: no, the stamp of Russian life
is not complete! Where is the native samovár, our family’s hearth, our
family altar, ark of domestic joys? In it boil, from it flow, the
traditions of all our days; in it live the recollections of Russian
antiquity; it alone has survived from the torso of former years,--the
inextinguishable grandfather has passed to the grandchildren. It is the
Russian rococo, formless, awkward, but inwardly good, though unsightly
from without; it preserves better the heat, and while it croons, the
discourse boils like its steaming liquid.
How many secret chapters of daily romances, life-stirring, heartfelt
romances that are not in books,--let one write as sweetly as one
may,--how many pure dreams of maidens’ souls and gentle quarrels of
love, and gentle peace-making, and quiet joys, and softly riotous joys
have stealthily taken fire in its flame and have invisibly been carried
in its cloud of steam! Wherever there are domestic Penates, from gilded
palaces to humble huts, wherever there is the brass samovár, an
inheritance of the orphan, the widow’s last wealth, and luxury of
poverty,--everywhere in holy and Orthodox Russia it is the chief
participator at family reunions. One cannot be born into the world, nor
enter into matrimony, nor will friends say “welcome” or “good-bye,” but
that, the end and beginning of all everyday affairs, the boiling
samovár, the domestic leader of the choir, raises its voice and calls
the family together.
The poet has said, and his verse we understand: “Our country’s smoke is
sweet and pleasant to us!” Was not our great poet--there can be no doubt
about it--then inspired by the samovár? Derzhávin’s shades, following
me, turn to you with the earnest request, to his honour and the honour
of the Orthodox country, to throw away the teapot and introduce the
samovár.
TO MY THREE ABSENT FRIENDS
My brothers! whither scattered now?
What fate, what cruel fate could sever
Hands, souls, fast-bound, divided never?
But ye are fled, and fled for ever,
And I am left alone with woe!
The sigh I heave in silence here,
The careless zephyr bears away;
’T is lost in twilight’s darkening ray,
’T is veiled in night,--it fades in day,--
It ne’er will reach your listening ear.
Perchance e’en now, while round me roll
Dark storms and misty clouds, e’en now,
Pain’s icy sweat upon his brow,
One calls upon his friend, and oh!
Death’s wintry curtain wraps his soul.
Then sleep in peace, thou spirit blest!
My spirit seems to cling to thee;
From sorrow to felicity
Wafted, thy bark has passed the sea
Of storms, in joy’s calm port to rest.
How long shall absence’ misery last?
When, when shall dawn the hour of meeting?
Shall ne’er again the blessed greeting
Of social bliss return?--How fleeting
Its rapture,--’t is for ever past!
Cold, cold,--I feel my heart; delight
Can kindle ne’er its fire again;
My tears flow forth, they flow in vain;
My smiles,--no light those smiles retain;
For what awaked it sinks in night.
Time was, how blessèd to recall
That time, when our hands garlanded
The fairest wreaths of roses red,
And in youth’s spring the chorus led
To heaven, the source, the end of all.
Time was, but like a dream it fled!
The hymn,--’t is now a funeral dirge;
The garland,--’t is affliction’s scourge;
The dance,--its memories now emerge
Like ghosts that wander midst the dead.
And now the plaint ascends! Appear,
Appear, delightful hours, anew!
Spirit of youth, so fond, so true,
Awake! Suns, once so bright, so few,
Shine,--let illusion’s mockery cheer!
But see! the darkness creeps away,--
The clouds disperse, the storm is gone,--
Thy smile returns not, blessèd one!
The mountains see the morning dawn,
To me, alas! there dawns no day.
--From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part
II.
DEATH REAPS THE HARVEST OF LIFE
Death reaps the harvest of life, and every day and every hour asks for a
new prey of life, and sternly tears us asunder.
How many fair names he has already snatched away from the living, and
how many voiceless lyres hang on young cypresses!
How many companions are no more, how many younger ones have passed,
whose morning dawned when the sultry midday burnt us!
But we have remained, have survived that fateful carnage; but we are
impoverished after the death of our near ones, and no longer strive for
life as for a conflict.
Sadly finishing our days, we are waiting for the belated relief,--slowly
dying from day to day, until we shall be no more.
Sons of another generation, we are a last year’s flower in the new: the
impressions of the living are foreign to us, and they have no sympathy
for ours.
They care not for that which we love, and their passions do not agitate
us! They were not there where we have been, and not for us is where they
shall be!
Our world is an empty fane to them, our past is but a myth, and that
which for us are hallowed ashes, to them is but mute dust.
Yes! We are like ruins, and we stand on the crossroad of the living,
like mortuary monuments amidst the habitations of men!
Kondráti Fédorovich Rylyéev. (1796-1826.)
Rylyéev was at the early age of six inscribed by his mother in the
Cadet Corps, in order to remove him from the influence of his brutal
father. In 1814 he graduated as lieutenant, and took part in the
expedition that entered Paris. Upon his return, he was stationed in
the Governments of Minsk and Vorónezh; he later settled in St.
Petersburg, where he distinguished himself for his official integrity
as member of the Criminal Court and as Manager of the Russo-American
Company. He began to write verses as a boy, and his ardent
republicanism, coupled with a not less fervent patriotism, led him to
an idealisation of ancient Russian heroes. He did this in the
prevailing Romantic spirit, being urged on in his endeavours by his
mentor and friend, Púshkin. Of his historical ballads the best are
_Iván Susánin_ and _Voynaróvski_; they all created an outburst of
patriotic enthusiasm upon their appearance. Of his other poems the
most perfect are _The Citizen_ and _Civil Valour_. Rylyéev took an
active part in the plot of the Decembrists, was at once arrested, and
later publicly executed. His poems were prohibited in Russia until a
comparatively recent time.
An extract from _Voynaróvski_ was translated in the Foreign Quarterly
Review, vol. ix., 1832; a large number of his poems, containing the
whole of _Voynaróvski_, are given in _The Poems of K. F. Relaieff_,
translated from the Russian by T. Hart-Davies, London (new and
enlarged edition, 1887); C. T. Wilson has translated in _Russian
Lyrics_ his _Iván Susánin_, _Svyatopólk_, and _Prayer Before Death_.
In Free Russia, vol. xii., No. 2, _The Citizen_ is translated by
Elizabeth Gibson.
FROM “VOYNARÓVSKI”
But whose that wandering form that ’s seen
Athwart the morning fog to creep
From out yon hut, and on the steep
Beneath which Lena’s waters sweep
Pace with slow step and ’wildered mien?
His arquebus slung at his back,
His short caftan, and cap of black,
Seem to denote him a Cossack
From Dnieper’s shores. Stern is his face,
And full of grief, for cankering thought
Hath furrowed deep that brow, and wrought
The stamp of age on manhood’s grace.
See! to the west his hands extending,
Wild lustre breaking from his eyes,
Homeward his thoughts and wishes sending,
He thus exclaims with tearless sigh:
“Ye distant fields, that saw my birth,
My death you may not view!
Tombs of my sires! The exile’s bones
Will never rest in you!
In vain the flame of life yet burns,--
It never more may shine;
In vain my soul the dastard spurns,--
The dastard’s lot is mine.”
────────────────────────────────────
Who is that exile? None may tell:
Months, years have passed since first he came
To this his far abode of shame,
Here shunned, and shunning all, to dwell.
Ne’er hath a smile been seen to play
Across that face blanched by despair;
And woe, not age, hath tinged with grey
His unkempt beard and matted hair.
Yet, not a felon deed hath sent
That stranger hither; nor hath brent
The glowing iron his scarred face,
And charactered a slave’s disgrace;
Though ne’er did branded felon show
Such withered look, so wild a brow.
Calmness is there, but ’t is the calm
Of Baykal, ere the tempest rise
To lash its waters to the skies,
Spreading around dismay, alarm;
And, as athwart the midnight gloom
Flickers the lamp beside the tomb,
So gleam with ghastly glare his eyes.
Wandering alone o’er crag, through dell,
He roams each day, and none may dare
To ask his name, his grief, his care:
His frown forbids, that frown ’s a spell.
────────────────────────────────────
“List, stranger, and with wonder learn
How Fate, unpitying, wayward, stern,
Delights us mortals to oppress.
Beneath this garb uncouth, this dress
So coarse, a slave it scarce befits,
Thus abject here beside thee sits
Mazeppa’s kinsman, friend, and heir.”
--From Foreign Quarterly Review, 1832.
IVÁN SUSÁNIN
“Where lead’st thou our footsteps? Here naught can be seen,”
Thus shouted the foe to the brave Susanin,
“We sink in the snow-heaps, we stick on the road,
We ne’er shall arrive at thy sheltering abode;
’T is on purpose thou stray’st from the path, but in vain,
From tricks like this Michael no safety will gain.
“Though snow-storm may rage, though we wander afar,
Yet death at the Poles’ hands shall come on thy Tsar;
So lead on, or tremble! and shorten our pain,--
All night with the tempest contending amain,
Through snow-storms and cold thou hast made us to go,--
But what dark spot is that in the valley below?”
“’T is the hamlet,” the peasant replied, “see, there stand
The corn-yards, the bridge, and the pales round the land!
With me, on to the door, for the cottage hath been
Long time ready warmed to receive guests within,
So onward, and fear not!” “Well, well I must say
Thou hast led us, my friend, a most cursed long way.
“A night more infernal I never have seen,
With snow stuck together my eyelids have been;
My coat, pah! you wring it, there ’s not a thread dry.”
Thus grumbled the Pole, and went in with the cry
Of, “Wine, wine! we are cold, we are wet through and through,
Or we ’ll take what our broadswords can wring out of you.”
And now on the board the rough napkin was spread
With beer and with wine-jugs, and each had his bread
Before him, and soup made of cabbage was there
And Russian wheat-gruel, a right welcome fare.
Without the cold wind at the casemates was spurning,
Within the dim spluttering torches were burning.
Now midnight had passed, in tranquillity deep
On the benches the Poles lay unheeding asleep,
In the house filled with smoke no one stirring was seen,
Save as sentinel standing the grey Susanin,
In the corner he stood near the ikon, and there
For the young Tsar’s protection he murmured a prayer.
The silence the tramp of a horse’s hoofs stirred.
Then stole Susanin to the doorway, and heard,
“Is it thou, father dear? to find thee I am here.
Where goest thou? Rough is the journey and drear,
’T is past midnight, no lull in the tempest hath come,
Sure thou bringest distress to the hearts of thy home.”
“It was God’s will thy steps to this village to guide,
And now haste to the young Tsar,” the father replied,
“And tell him, tell Michael, to flee and not wait,
For the murderous Poles in their pride and their hate
In secret to murder young Michael intend,
And so doth a fresh woe o’er Moscow impend.
“Tell him that I, loving my faith and my land,
Will rescue the Tsar from the enemy’s hand;
Tell him that his safety lies only in flight,
That e’en now the assassins are with me this night.”
“O my father, what say’st thou?--a moment refrain,”
Said the youth, “if thou die, what to me will remain?
“Who then my young sister, my mother will guard?”
“The holy Creator will take them in ward,”
Said brave Susanin, “and they never will fall,
For assistance and shelter He giveth to all
Who are orphans; so hasten, ’t is time now to go,
’T is for Russia, remember, I lay my life low.”
With a sob the youth mounted, and swiftly did go,
Like a whistling arrow just loosed from the bow.
Through the clouds the moon shone, the wild snow-storm was o’er,
All hushed were the winds and the tempest’s loud roar,
In the east the dim dawn ’gan to glimmer afar,
And the Poles woke from slumber, those foes of the Tsar.
“Susanin,” they cried, “cease thy prayers to thy God,
It is time for the start, we should be on the road!”
So leaving the village in shouting array,
Through the forest they followed a winding pathway.
Susanin led them on; and now up rose the light,
And the sun through the branches began to gleam bright.
Soon his rays were obscured, then again brightly shone,
Then with dim light he glimmered, and vanished anon.
Scarce a rustle was heard from the beech or the oak,
Scarce a sound ’neath the feet from the frost-bound snow broke,
Scarce a crow rose in flight with a flutter and cry,
And the woodpecker pecked at the willow-tree dry.
In silence the Poles marched on singly in file,
Still farther their grey-haired guide led them the while;
Now high in the heavens the mid-day sun stood,
But darker and drearer grew the thick wood,
Till sudden before them the pathway was lost,
And a hedge of fir-branches thick plaited and crossed
With pine-boughs right down to the ground interlaced,
On the road like some rough wall before them was placed;
In vain did the scouts bend a listening ear,
All was desert and dead, not a sound could they hear.
“Whither now hast thou led us?” the wearied Poles cried.
“To the place that was needed,” the peasant replied;
“So slay me, a martyr, for here is my tomb,
But know that I save the young Tsar from his doom;
Ye thought ye had found a base traitor in me,
But no Russ is a traitor, nor ever shall be!
Here each loves his country from youth’s early day,
And his fatherland vilely can never betray.”
“Wretch!” yelled the fierce Poles with a wild fury torn,
“Thou shalt die ’neath our sabres.” “Your anger I scorn,
For the true Russian heart with content and with trust
Ever joyfully dies in the cause which is just,
Fear of death or of doom from my spirit is far,
All untrembling I die for my country and Tsar.”
“Die then!” to the hero the angry foe screamed,
O’er his grey head the broadswords keen-whistling gleamed,
“Perish, traitorous villain, thy life’s end is near!”
Susanin wounded fell without shrinking or fear,
By his purer blood’s red stream the pure snow was laved--
’T was that life-blood which Michael for Russia had saved.
--From T. Hart-Davies’s _The Poems of K. F. Relaieff_.
Aleksándr Sergyéevich Griboyédov. (1795-1829.)
The famous author of the drama _Intelligence Comes to Grief_ was the
son of wealthy and cultivated parents, who gave him a brilliant
education. At the age of fifteen he spoke several languages fluently,
and entered the university, from which he graduated two years later
with the degree of Bachelor of Laws. He immediately joined the army,
but did not take part in the foreign campaigns as his regiment was
kept back for home duty. During his leisure hours he translated and
remodelled several French dramas, without displaying any especial
talent for dramatic work. In 1818 he was appointed secretary of the
Russian legation in Persia, and in recognition of his important
services was highly decorated by both the Russian and the Persian
governments. During his wearisome sojourn in Asia he laid the
foundation for his drama _Intelligence Comes to Grief_, and he
finished it in Moscow in 1823. He went with it to St. Petersburg to
stage it, but the censor would not permit even its publication. In the
meanwhile the drama became known throughout Russia in hundreds of
manuscript copies, and it created a sensation unlike any previous work
of literature. In portraying both the servility and corruption of the
older temporising generation, and the carping criticism and would-be
liberalism of the younger set, who in their endeavour to imitate the
West sinned against the national character, Griboyédov incurred the
animosities of all the camps; but by unanimous consent _Intelligence
Comes to Grief_ is the greatest national drama of Russia. Since its
first appearance on the stage in 1831, and its first publication in
1833, it has had some fifty editions, and is still on the repertoire
of Russian theatres. In 1828 Griboyédov was sent again to Persia, this
time in the capacity of minister, but he was killed soon after his
arrival in Teheran by an infuriated mob.
_Intelligence Comes to Grief_ was translated into English under its
Russian title, _Gore ot Ouma_, from the Russian of Griboiedoff, by N.
Benardaky, London, Edinburgh, 1857. In The Anglo-Russian Literary
Society, No. 15, is translated his _David_, by F. P. Marchant.
FROM “INTELLIGENCE COMES TO GRIEF”
ACT II, SCENE 1. FÁMUSOV AND SERVANT
_Fámusov._ Petrúshka, your caftan is eternally patched up or torn at the
elbow! Fetch down the almanac. Look there; don’t read like a sexton, but
with feeling, with understanding, with rests. Hold on! Write down on the
memorandum, against next week: “I ’m invited to Praskóvya Fédorovna on
Tuesday for trout.” How wonderful this world is made! Your brain is in a
whirl when you philosophise about it! Now you take care of yourself, and
now it is a dinner; you eat three hours, and it will not be digested in
three days. Oh, make a note for the same day--no, no! “For Thursday I am
called to a funeral.” O human race! It has slipped my mind that we all
shall have to get into that box where one can neither stand up nor sit.
Here is an example of a praiseworthy life: the defunct was an honourable
chamberlain, he held a key, and has managed to obtain a key for his son;
he was rich, and married to a rich woman; he married off his children
and grandchildren; he has passed away, and all mention him with regret:
“Maksím Petróvich, peace to his ashes!” Write down, on Thursday, while
you are about it, or may be, on Friday, or Saturday: “I am to be
godfather at the doctor’s widow.” The child is not yet born, but, if my
calculation is right, will be.
SCENE 2. FÁMUSOV, SERVANT, AND CHÁTSKI
_Fámusov._ Ah, Aleksándr Andréich, come nearer, take a seat!
_Chátski._ You are busy?
_Fámusov_ (_to the servant_). Go! (_Servant exit._) Yes, I have been
entering various memoranda on business matters, not to forget them by
any chance.
_Chátski._ You look disconcerted. Tell me, why? Is my arrival untimely?
Has, perchance, some sorrow come to Sophia Pávlovna? There is disquiet
in your face and movements.
_Fámusov._ What a riddle you have propounded, my friend! Not joyful! You
would not expect me, at my age, to dance a jig.
_Chátski._ Nobody asks you to. I just asked two words about Sophia
Pávlovna, fearing that she might be ill.
_Fámusov._ Pshaw, the Lord spare us! Five thousand times he repeats one
and the same thing: now it is, there is no one fairer in the world than
Sophia Pávlovna, now, Sophia Pávlovna is ill. Tell me, have you taken a
liking to her? You have raced through the whole world,--don’t you want
to get married?
_Chátski._ What is that to you?
_Fámusov._ It would not be bad to ask of me: I am, so to say, a near
relative of hers; at least, they have not in vain been calling me her
father.
_Chátski._ Suppose I should sue for her hand, what would you say?
_Fámusov._ I should say: First, do not make a fool of yourself, do not,
my friend, neglect your estate; but above all, take a government
position.
_Chátski._ I should gladly serve, but I hate to be subservient.
_Fámusov._ That ’s it! You are all a haughty lot! Ask how your fathers
have done! Learn from your elders. Let us take, for example, my deceased
uncle, Maksím Petróvich: he used to dine not upon silver, but upon gold;
a hundred servants were at his beck; he was all covered with
decorations; he travelled all the time in a procession, was all the time
at Court, and at what Court! It was not then as now: he served under
Empress Catherine! In those days there was some weight in dignity: bow
all you please to them, they would not nod their heads. A dignitary was
not an ordinary mortal: he drank and ate quite differently. And my
uncle,--what is your prince, your count? He had such a serious look,
such haughty mien,--but when it was necessary to be subservient, he knew
how to limber up his joints. Once he by chance made a misstep during
audience at Court: he fell, and almost hurt his occiput. The old man
groaned,--his hoarse voice provoked her Majesty’s smile, she deigned to
laugh. What did he do? He rose, arranged his clothes, wanted to make a
bow, and fell down again, but this time on purpose. The laughter was
louder than before,--he repeated his feat. Well, how is that according
to your ideas? According to ours, he was shrewd: he fell down in pain,
he rose quite well. Who was oftenest invited to whist? Who heard a kind
word at Court? Maksím Petróvich! Who was honoured above all others at
Court? Maksím Petróvich! That ’s no trifle! Who conferred ranks, and
gave pensions? Maksím Petróvich! Ah, you of to-day are what?
_Chátski._ Truly, the world has grown more stupid--you may say so with a
sigh! When we compare the present age with the one that ’s past, though
the tradition is living, it is hard to believe: he was most famous whose
neck was oftenest bent, and the brow took by assault in peace, not war;
they mercilessly knocked their brows against the floor. He who needed
it, took delight in grovelling in the dust; those who stood higher wove
flattery like lace,--it was a sincere age of submission and terror!
Under the mask of zeal for the Tsar--(I am not talking of your uncle: we
will not disturb his ashes). But now, who would, even in the most ardent
servility, undertake to amuse the people, and boldly to sacrifice his
occiput? Though then, many an equal of his, or some old man who was
falling to pieces in his ancient hide, seeing his capers, probably
remarked: “Oh, if I could do the same!” There are even now some servile
souls, but nowadays ridicule terrifies them and shame holds them in
check. Kings, with good reason, are slow to favour them.
_Fámusov._ My God, he is a carbonaro!
_Chátski._ No, this is a different world!
_Fámusov._ Dangerous man!
_Chátski._ Everybody breathes more freely, and nobody hastens to
inscribe himself in the army of fools.
_Fámusov._ How he talks! And he talks as he writes.
_Chátski._ To yawn at the ceiling in the house of your patrons, to make
your appearance and sit in silence, to courtesy, dine, fetch a chair,
lift up a handkerchief--
_Fámusov._ He wants to preach liberty!
_Chátski._ Who travels, who lives in the village--
_Fámusov._ He does not acknowledge the authorities!
_Chátski._ Who serves his office and not men--
_Fámusov._ I should most severely forbid such gentlemen to get within a
gunshot of the capitals!
_Chátski._ I will not give you any rest!
_Fámusov._ My patience is all exhausted, I have had enough!
_Chátski._ I have unmercifully scolded your age; I leave it to you to
reject part of it in favour of our times: I shall not contradict.
_Fámusov._ I do not wish to know you! I despise debauch!
_Chátski._ I have had my say.
_Fámusov._ Very well, I close my ears!
_Chátski._ What for? I shall not insult them.
_Fámusov_ (_rapidly_). Such are the people that race the world and waste
their time. When they return, what order can you expect of them?
_Chátski._ I am done.
_Fámusov._ Please, spare me!
_Chátski._ It is not my desire to continue the dispute.
_Fámusov._ At least leave my soul to repentance.
SCENE 3. THE SAME AND SERVANT
_Servant._ Colonel Skalozúb!
_Fámusov_ (_not seeing or hearing him_). You ’ll be court-martialled
yet! They ’ll give you to drink.
_Chátski._ You have a guest.
_Fámusov._ I do not hear! You ’ll be court-martialled!
_Chátski._ Your servant is reporting to you.
_Fámusov._ I do not hear! You ’ll be court-martialled, court-martialled,
I say!
_Chátski._ Just turn around, you are addressed.
_Fámusov_ (_turning around_). Oh, rebellion! I am expecting nothing but
Sodom!
_Servant._ Colonel Skalozúb! Shall he be received?
_Fámusov_ (_rising_). Asses! Shall I repeat it a hundred times? Receive
him, call him, ask him in, tell him I am at home, that I am glad.
Begone, be in a hurry! (_Exit Servant._) Please, sir, be careful in his
presence; he is a distinguished gentleman, of solid habits, and he has
no end of decorations; his rank is enviable, considering his age; ’t is
but a question of a short time when he will be general!
SCENE 5. CHÁTSKI, FÁMUSOV, SKALOZÚB
_Fámusov._ Sergyéy Sergyéich, come here, near us! ’T is warmer here,
come here! I ’ll open the register at once.
_Skalozúb_ (_in a heavy bass_). Why should you trouble yourself? As an
honourable officer I can’t permit that.
_Fámusov._ Why should I not take a step for a friend? Dear Sergyéy
Sergyéich, put down your hat, take off your sword. Here is a sofa: make
yourself comfortable.
_Skalozúb._ I do not care where, so I am seated.
(_All three sit down, Chátski at some distance._)
_Fámusov._ O friend, not to forget: let us figure out our
relationship--there is no inheritance to be divided here. Do you know--I
used to know, thanks to what your cousin told me--how Nastásya
Nikoláevna is related to you?
_Skalozúb._ Beg your pardon, I do not know: we did not serve together.
_Fámusov._ Sergyéy Sergyéich, do you say that? I am ready to get down on
my knees before a relative of mine, wherever I may find him, though he
be at the bottom of the sea. I seldom have subordinates who are not my
relatives: they are nearly all my sister’s children, or some near
relative’s; Molchálin only is not of my family, and for the reason that
he knows about affairs. How can one help thinking of his family, when
there is a chance for promotion or for decoration? Yet, your cousin told
me that through you he has had many advantages in his service.
_Skalozúb._ Cousin and I distinguished ourselves in 1813 in the
thirtieth of the Chasseurs, and later in the forty-fifth.
_Fámusov._ How fortunate is he who has such a son! He has, I believe, a
decoration in the buttonhole?
_Skalozúb._ For August third. We stuck to a trench. He received his in
the buttonhole, I--around my neck.
_Fámusov._ A lovely man! A fine fellow to look at! A splendid man is
your cousin!
_Skalozúb._ He ’s chock-full of new-fangled rules. He was to get a
higher rank, when he left the service, and began to read books in his
village.
_Fámusov._ Strange youth! To read, and then--look out! You have acted as
is proper: you have long been colonel, though you serve but shortly.
_Skalozúb._ I am sufficiently fortunate in my colleagues. Vacancies have
been open just at the right time: some older ones have been retired, and
others have been killed off.
_Fámusov._ Yes, if God wants to show one His favour, He advances him!
_Skalozúb._ Some are luckier than I. Not to go farther, I ’ll mention
our brigadier-general in the fifteenth division.
_Fámusov._ But, I pray, you are lacking nothing.
_Skalozúb._ I can’t complain,--I have not been overlooked; yet, I have
been two years with the same regiment.
_Fámusov._ Oh, you are after the rank of general! Still, in many other
things you have left others far behind.
_Skalozúb._ No, there are older ones than I in the army: I have been
serving since eighty-nine. Yes, there are many channels through which
one may get promotion; I judge of them like a real philosopher: all I
care for is the rank of general.
_Fámusov._ You judge excellently. God grant you health and the rank of
general--and, why delay it longer?--it would be time to begin talking of
a Mrs. Skalozúb.
_Skalozúb._ Get married? I am not disinclined.
_Fámusov._ Well! One has a sister, another a niece, a daughter. In
Moscow there is no lack of prospective brides: they breed each year! My
friend, confess, it would be hard to find another capital like Moscow.
_Skalozúb._ Distances of enormous proportion!
_Fámusov._ There are good taste, my friend, and excellent manners, and
for everything there are laws. There, for example, it is an old custom
with us that the son is honoured according to his father: let him be a
worthless chap, but let him have two thousand peasants to his name, and
he will be an eligible bridegroom; another may be much more agile, full
of all kinds of pride, let him pass for a clever fellow,--yet he will
not be a member of our families, nor need you wonder at this, for it is
only here that we still respect noble birth. Nor is this all! Take our
hospitable bread and salt: anyone who may wish to call on us is welcome!
The door is open for invited and uninvited guests, especially if they be
foreigners. It makes no difference to us whether they be honourable or
dishonest men: dinner is prepared for all alike. On all the Muscovites,
if you please, there is a special stamp. Just look at our youths, our
sons, and grandchildren: we lecture them, but look close at them, and
you will find that at fifteen years they are ready to teach their
teachers! And our old men? When a notion strikes them, and they discuss
affairs,--each word they say is a sentence passed. They are important
men, and care not a fig for anyone. Should someone hear their
discussions about the Government, there would be trouble! Not that they
introduce innovations--never! The Lord preserve us, no! They simply find
fault with this and that, and oftenest with nothing at all: they
quarrel, make a noise, and go each one to his home. They are true
ex-chancellors as regards their brains! I will tell you this much:
evidently time has not been propitious, but no affair will be decided
without them.
And the ladies? Let anyone try and get the better of them! They are
judges in all things and everywhere,--there are no judges over them.
When they rise in common riot at the cards,--then God grant us patience!
Remember, I have myself been married! Order them to command an army!
Send them to take their seats in the Senate! Irína Vlásevna! Lukórya
Aleksyéevna! Tatyána Yúrevna! Pulkhériya Andréevna! And he who has seen
their daughters will only hang his head! His Majesty the Prussian King
was here: he admired beyond measure the Moscow maidens,--their
mannerliness, not their faces! And forsooth! Can one be brought up
better! They know how to primp themselves in taffeta, velvet, and
dimity; they never say a word simply, but always with a grimace. They
sing French romances, and strike the upper notes. They cling to the
military,--because they are patriots. I must say emphatically: you will
scarcely find another such a capital as Moscow!
_Skalozúb._ In my opinion, the conflagration has done much for its
embellishment.
_Fámusov._ You have no cause for complaint: since then our roads, our
sidewalks, houses, and all creak in a new fashion.
_Chátski._ The houses are new, but the prejudices old. Rejoice: neither
years, nor fashion, nor conflagrations will annihilate them.
_Fámusov_ (_to Chátski_). Sir, tie a knot for memory’s sake! I asked you
to keep quiet,--’t is but a small service. (_To Skalozúb._) Permit me,
sir, to acquaint you with Chátski, a friend of mine, the son of the late
Andréy Ilích! He does not serve, that is, he sees no advantage in it; he
would make a good official, if he only wished so. ’T is a pity, a great
pity: he is a young man with a head, and he writes and translates
beautifully. One can’t help regretting----
_Chátski._ Can you not regret someone else? Even your praises anger me!
_Fámusov._ Not I alone,--everybody judges you thus.
_Chátski._ Who are the judges? They being old, their hostility against a
free life cannot be assuaged: they draw their judgments from forgotten
gazettes of the days of Ochákov and the conquest of the Crimea. Ever
ready to chide, they eternally sing one and the same song, and do not
notice that the older they grow, the worse they become. Where, show us,
are the fathers of the fatherland whom we are to assume as our models?
Perchance they are those who by robbery have grown rich, who find
protection against the courts in their friends and families, and who
erect magnificent palaces, where they indulge in banquets and
lavishness, and where the foreign clients will not efface the meanest
features of their former lives? Pray, whose mouth has in Moscow not been
closed by dinners, suppers, and dances? Is it, perhaps, he to whom you
took me still in my swaddling clothes, for some incomprehensible
purpose, to make obeisances,--that Nestor of noble scoundrels, who was
surrounded by a crowd of servants? They bestirred themselves for him,
and in houses of wine and brawls more than once had saved his honour and
his life,--and he suddenly exchanged three hounds for them. Or that
other man who, to please his fancy, brought together in many waggons to
an enforced ballet the children who had been torn away from their
parents? Himself merged in contemplation of Zephyrs and Cupids, he
caused all Moscow to admire their beauty; but he did not with all that
appease his creditors: the Cupids and Zephyrs were all sold one by one.
These are the men who have lived to have grey hair! It is these that you
wish us to respect in the wilderness! These are our austere arbiters and
judges! Let now one among us young men be found who is an enemy of
servility, who seeks neither a place, nor a promotion, who, thirsting
for knowledge, bends his mind to the sciences, or into whose soul God
Himself has implanted a fire for the high and beautiful creative
arts,--they at once cry: murder! fire! and you at once pass for a
dangerous dreamer. The uniform, nothing but the uniform! In their former
existence their beautiful gold-laced uniforms had cloaked their
pusillanimity and poverty of intelligence,--so they wish us Godspeed
upon their own path. And their wives and daughters have the same passion
for the uniforms. Is it long since I, sharing that weakness for it, have
renounced it? Now I shall never again be prone to such childishness. But
who would then not have been carried away together with all? When
someone of the Guards or from the Court came here for a time, the women
cried “Hurrah!” and threw their bonnets in the air.
_Fámusov_ (_aside_). He will get me into trouble yet! (_Aloud._) Sergyéy
Sergyéich, I shall wait for you in the study. (_Exit._)
Aleksándr Aleksándrovich Bestúzhev (pseud. Marlínski). (1797-1837.)
Bestúzhev was one of three brothers who took part in the Decembrist
uprising. He had received a brilliant education at home, which, thanks
to the industry of his highly cultivated father, was a museum in
miniature. He turned his attention to literature in 1819, through his
friend Rylyéev joined the December conspiracy, and was banished for
only a few years to Siberia, because he had voluntarily surrendered
himself. He was possessed of an unusually ardent nature, which led him
to engage in most extravagant love affairs, with always a duel in
prospect, and his many novels, with their transcendental Romanticism
and perfervid diction, are only the expression of his inner
experiences. He died in the Caucasus, in an engagement with the
mountaineers, but his body was not recovered. He was, in his day, the
most popular novelist, whom even Púshkin greatly admired, and several
of his works have been translated into many languages, among them also
into Georgian. His _Ammalát Bek_ was translated into English by Thomas
B. Shaw, in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, vol. liii., 1843; also
_The Tartar Chief; or, A Russian Colonel’s Head for Dowry_, from the
Russian of Marlinsky, by G. C. Hebbe, LLD., New York, 1846.
FROM “AMMALÁT BEK”
For some time past, the mountaineers had fallen in considerable numbers
only on Christian villages, for in the stanítsas[5] the resistance had
cost them very dear. For the plundering of houses they approached boldly
yet cunningly the Russian frontier, and on such occasions they
frequently escaped a battle. The bravest Uzdéns desire to meet with
these affairs that they may acquire fame, which they value even more
than plunder.
In the autumn of the year 1810, the Kabardinians and Chechenians,
encouraged by the absence of the commander-in-chief, assembled to the
number of fifteen hundred men to make an attack upon one of the villages
beyond the Térek, to seize it, carry off prisoners, and take the droves
of horses. The leader of the Kabardinians was the Prince Dzhembulát.
Ammalát Bek, who had arrived with a letter from Sultan Akhmét Khan, was
received with delight. They did not, indeed, assign him the command of
any division; but this arose from the circumstance that with them there
is no order of battle or gradation of command; an active horse and
individual courage secures the most distinguished place in action. At
first they deliberate how best to begin the attack,--how to repel the
enemy; but afterwards they pay no attention to plan or order, and chance
decides the affair.
Having sent messengers to summon the neighbouring Uzdéns, Dzhembulát
fixed on a place of general assembling; and immediately, on a signal
agreed on, from every height spread the cry: “Garáy, garáy!” (alarm),
and in one hour the Chechenians and Kabardinians were assembling from
all sides. To avoid treason, no one but the leader knew where the
night-camp was to be, from which they were to cross the river. They were
divided into small bands, and were to go by almost invisible paths to
the peaceful village, where they were to conceal themselves till night.
By twilight, all the divisions were already mustered.
As they arrived, they were received by their countrymen with frank
embraces; but Dzhembulát, not trusting to this, guarded the village with
sentinels, and proclaimed to the inhabitants that whoever attempted to
desert to the Russians should be cut to pieces. The greater part of the
Uzdéns took up their quarters in the sáklas of their kunáks or
relations; but Dzhembulát and Ammalát, with the best of the cavaliers,
slept in the open air around a fire, when they had refreshed their jaded
horses. Dzhembulát, wrapped in his búrka, was considering, with folded
arms, the plan of the expedition; but the thoughts of Ammalát were far
from the battlefield: they were flying, eagle-winged, to the mountains
of Avár, and bitterly, bitterly, did he feel his separation. The sound
of an instrument, the mountain balaláyka, accompanying a slow air,
recalled him from his reverie; and a Kabardinian sang an ancient song.
“On Kazbék the clouds are meeting,
Like the mountain eagle-flock;
Up to them, along the rock,
Dash the wild Uzdéns retreating;
Onward faster, faster fleeting,
Routed by the Russian brood,
Foameth all their track with blood.
“Fast behind the regiments yelling,
Lance and bayonet raging hot,
And the seed of death their shot.
On the mail the sabre knelling,
Gallop, steed! for far thy dwelling,--
See! they fall,--but distant still
Is the forest of the hill!
“Russian shot our hearts is rending,
Falls the Moollah on his knee,
To the Lord of Light bows he,
To the Prophet he is bending;
Like a shaft his prayer ascending,
Upward flies to Allah’s throne--
Il-Allah! Oh, save thine own!
“Ah, despair!--What crash like thunder!
Lo! a sign from heaven above!
Lo! the forest seems to move,
Crashes, murmurs, bursts asunder!
Lower, nearer, wonder! wonder!
Safe once more the Moslem bold
In their forest mountain-hold!”
“So it was in old times,” said Dzhembulát, with a smile, “when our men
trusted more to prayer, and God oftener listened to them; but now, my
friends, there is a better hope,--your valour! _Our_ omens are in the
scabbards of our sabres, and we must show that we are not ashamed of
them. Hark ye, Ammalát,” he continued, twisting his moustache, “I will
not conceal from you that the affair may be warm. I have just heard that
Colonel K---- has collected his division; but where he is, or how many
troops he has, nobody knows.”
“The more Russians there are the better,” replied Ammalát, quietly; “the
fewer mistakes will be made.”
“And the heavier will be the plunder.”
“I care not for that. I seek revenge and glory.”
“Glory is a good bird, when she lays a golden egg; but he that returns
with his toróks (straps behind the saddle) empty, is ashamed to appear
before his wife. Winter is near, and we must provide our households at
the expense of the Russians, that we may feast our friends and allies.
Choose your station, Ammalát Bek. Do you prefer to advance in front to
carry off the flocks, or will you remain with me in the rear? I and the
Abréks will march at a foot’s pace to restrain the pursuers.”
“That is what I also intend. I will be where the greatest peril is. But
what are the Abréks, Dzhembulát?”
“It is not easy to explain. You sometimes see several of our boldest
cavaliers take an oath, binding them for two or three years, or as long
as they like, never to mingle in games or gaieties, never to spare their
lives in battle, to give no quarter, never to pardon the least offence
in a brother or a friend, to seize the goods of others without fear or
scruple,--in a word, to be the foes of all mankind, strangers in their
family, men whom any person may slay if he can; in the village they are
dangerous neighbours, and in meeting them you must keep your hand on the
trigger; but in war one can trust them.”
“For what motive, or reason, can the Uzdéns make such an engagement?”
“Some simply to show their courage, others from poverty, a third class
from some misfortune. See, for instance, yonder tall Kabardinian; he has
sworn to be an Abrék for five years, since his mistress died of the
smallpox. Since that year it would be as well to make acquaintance with
a tiger as with him. He has already been wounded three times for blood
vengeance; but he cares not for that.”
“Strange custom! How will he return from the life of an Abrék to a
peaceable existence?”
“What is there strange in this? The past glides from him as water from
the wild-duck. His neighbours will be delighted when he has finished his
term of brigandage. And he, after putting off Abrékism, as a serpent
sheds his skin, will become gentle as a lamb. Among us, none but the
avenger of blood remembers yesterday. But the night is darkening. The
mists are spreading over Térek. It is time for the work.”
Dzhembulát whistled, and his whistle was repeated to all the outposts of
the camp. In a moment the whole band was assembled. Several Uzdéns
joined from the neighbouring friendly villages. After a short discussion
as to the passage of the river, the band moved in silence to the bank.
Ammalát Bek could not but admire the stillness, not only of the riders,
but of their horses; not one of them neighed or snorted, and they seemed
to place their feet on the ground with caution.
They marched like a voiceless cloud, and soon they reached the bank of
Térek, which, making a winding at this spot, formed a promontory, and
from it to the opposite shore extended a pebbly shoal. The water over
this bank was shallow and fordable; nevertheless, a part of the
detachment left the shore higher up, in order to swim past the Cossacks,
and, diverting their attention from the principal passage, to cover the
fording party. Those who had confidence in their horses leaped
unhesitatingly from the bank, while others tied to each fore-foot of
their steeds a pair of small skins, inflated with air like bladders: the
current bore them on, and each landed wherever he found a convenient
spot.
────────────────────────────────────
Daybreak appeared; the fog began to separate, and discovered a picture
at once magnificent and terrible. The principal band of foragers dragged
the prisoners after it,--some were at the stirrup, others behind the
saddle, with their arms tied at their backs. Tears, and groans, and
cries of despair were stifled by the threats or frantic cries of joy of
the victors. Loaded with plunder, impeded by the flocks and horned
cattle, they advanced slowly towards the Térek. The princes and best
cavaliers, in mail-coats and casques glittering like water, galloped
round the dense mass, as lightning flashes round a living cloud.
In the distance were galloping up from every point the Cossacks of the
Line; they ambushed behind the shrubs and straggling oak-trees, and soon
began an irregular fire with the brigands who were sent against them. In
the meantime, the foremost had driven across the river a portion of the
flocks, when a cloud of dust, and the tramp of the cavalry, announced
the approaching storm.
About six hundred mountaineers, commanded by Dzhembulát and Ammalát,
turned their horses to repulse the attack, and give time to the rest to
escape by the river. Without order, but with wild cries and shouts, they
dashed forward to meet the Cossacks; but not a single gun was taken from
its belt, not a single sabre glimmered in the air: a Circassian waits
till the last moment before he seizes his weapons. And thus, having
galloped to the distance of twenty paces, they levelled their guns,
fired at full speed, threw their fire-arms over their backs, and drew
their sabres; but the Cossacks of the Line, having replied with a
volley, began to fly, and the mountaineers, heated by the chase, fell
into a stratagem which they often employ themselves.
The Cossacks had led them up to the Chasseurs of the brave forty-third
regiment, who were concealed at the edge of the forest. Suddenly, as if
the little squares had started out of the earth, the bayonets were
levelled, and the fire poured on them, taking them in flank. It was in
vain that the mountaineers, dismounting from their horses, essayed to
occupy the underwood and attack the Russians from the rear; the
artillery came up and decided the affair. The experienced Colonel
Kortsarév, the dread of the Chechenians, the man whose bravery they
feared and whose honesty and disinterestedness they respected, directed
the movements of the troops, and success could not be doubtful. The
cannon dispersed the crowds of brigands, and their grape flew after the
flying.
The defeat was terrible; two guns, dashing at a gallop to the
promontory, not far from which the Circassians were throwing themselves
into the river, enfiladed the stream; with a rushing sound, the shot
flew over the foaming waves, and at each fire some of the horses might
be seen to turn over with their feet in the air, drowning their riders.
It was sad to see how the wounded clutched at the tails and bridles of
the horses of their companions, sinking them without saving
themselves,--how the exhausted struggled against the scarped bank,
endeavouring to clamber up, fell back, and were borne away and engulfed
by the furious current. The corpses of the slain were whirled away,
mingled with the dying, and streaks of blood curled and writhed like
serpents on the foam. The smoke floated along the Térek, far in the
distance, and the snowy peaks of the Caucasus, crowned with mist,
bounded the field of battle.
Dzhembulát and Ammalát Bek fought desperately,--twenty times did they
rush to the attack, twenty times were they repulsed; wearied, but not
conquered, with a hundred brigands they swam the river, dismounted,
attached their horses to each other by the bridle, and began a warm fire
from the other side of the river, to cover their surviving comrades.
Intent upon this, they remarked, too late, that the Cossacks were
passing the river above them; with a shout, the Russians leaped upon the
bank, and surrounded them in a moment. Their fate was inevitable.
“Well, Dzhembulát,” said the Bek to the Kabardinian, “our lot is
finished. Do you what you will: but for me, I will not render myself a
prisoner alive. ’T is better to die by a ball than by a shameful cord!”
“Do you think,” answered Dzhembulát, “that my arms were made for a
chain? Allah keep me from such a blot! The Russians may take my body,
but not my soul. Never, never! Brethren, comrades!” he cried to the
others, “fortune has betrayed us, but the steel will not. Let us sell
our lives dearly to the Giaour. The victor is not he who keeps the
field, but he who has the glory; and the glory is his who prefers death
to slavery!”
“Let us die, let us die, but let us die gloriously!” cried all, piercing
with their daggers the sides of their horses, that the enemy might not
take them, and then piling up the dead bodies of their steeds, they lay
down behind the heap, preparing to meet the attack with lead and steel.
Well aware of the obstinate resistance they were about to encounter, the
Cossacks stopped, and made ready for the charge. The shot from the
opposite bank sometimes fell in the midst of the brave mountaineers,
sometimes a grenade exploded, covering them with earth and fragments;
but they showed no confusion, they started not, nor blenched; and, after
the custom of their country, began to sing, with a melancholy yet
threatening voice, the death-song, replying alternately stanza for
stanza.
DEATH-SONG
_Chorus_
“Fame to us, death to you,
Alla-ha, Alla-hu!”
_Semichorus_
“Weep, O ye maidens, on mountain and valley,
Lift the dirge for the souls of the brave!
We have fired our last bullet, have made our last rally,
And Caucasus gives us a grave.
Here the soft pipe no more shall invite us to slumber,--
The thunder our lullaby sings;
Our eyes not the maiden’s dark tresses shall cumber,
Them the raven shall shade with his wings!
Forget, O my children, your father’s stern duty,--
No more shall he bring ye the Muscovite booty!”
_Second Semichorus_
“Weep not, ye maidens! Your sisters in splendour,
The Houris, they bend from the sky,
They fix on the brave their sun-glance deep and tender,
And to Paradise bear him on high!
In your feast-cup, my brethren, forget not our story:
The death of the Free is the noblest of glory!”
_First Semichorus_
“Roar, winter torrent, and sullenly dash!
But where is the brave one,--the swift lightning-flash?
Soft star of my soul, my mother,
Sleep, the fire let ashes smother;
Gaze no more, thine eyes are weary,
Sit not by the threshold stone;
Gaze not through the night-fog dreary,
Eat thine evening meal alone,
Seek him not, O mother, weeping,
By the cliff and by the ford!
On a bed of dust he ’s sleeping,--
Broken is both heart and sword!”
_Second Semichorus_
“Mother, weep not! with thy love burning:
This heart of mine beats full and free,
And to lion-blood is turning
That soft milk I drew from thee;
And our liberty from danger
Thy brave son has guarded well;
Battling with the Christian stranger,
Called by Azrael, he fell;
From my blood fresh odours breathing,
Fadeless flowers shall drink the dew;
To my children fame bequeathing,
Brethren, and revenge to you!”
_Chorus_
“Pray, my brethren, ere we part:
Clutch the steel with hate and wrath!
Break it in the Russian’s heart,--
O’er corses lies the brave man’s path!
Fame to us, death to you,
Alla-ha, Alla-hu!”
Struck by a certain involuntary awe, the Chasseurs and Cossacks listened
in silence to the stern sounds of this song; but at last a loud _hurrah_
resounded from both sides. The Circassians, with a shout, fired their
guns for the last time, and breaking them against the stones, they threw
themselves dagger in hand, upon the Russians. The Abréks in order that
their line might not be broken, bound themselves to each other with
their girdles, and hurled themselves into the mêlée. Quarter was neither
asked nor given: all fell before the bayonets of the Russians.
“Forward! Follow me, Ammalát Bek,” cried Dzhembulát, with fury, rushing
into the combat which was to be his last: “Forward! For us death is
liberty!”
But Ammalát heard not his call: a blow from a musket on the back of the
head stretched him on the earth, already sown with corpses and covered
with blood.
--Transl. by Thomas B. Shaw, in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine,
vol. liii. (1843).
[5] Cossack villages.
Iván Ivánovich Lazhéchnikov. (1794-1869.)
Lazhéchnikov was the most famous of Russian novelists before Gógol.
His father was a rich grain and salt merchant in the city of Kolómna,
and he spared no money for the education of his son. At sixteen years
Lazhéchnikov wrote his _Thoughts in Imitation of La Bruyère_, which
was published in The Messenger of Europe. His father having lost all
his property, he accepted a government position, but in 1812 joined
the army and with it went through the whole French campaign. In 1819
appeared his _Campaign Memoirs of a Russian Officer_, which are full
of youthful ardour, patriotism, and a consciousness of the European
importance of Russia. Having attracted the attention of the Court, he
received various appointments, but again left the service in 1826. He
then wrote his three great novels on which his reputation rests,
namely, _The Last Noviks_, _The Ice House_, and _The Heretic_. His
later stories did not sustain his fame.
In English has appeared _The Heretic_, translated from the Russian of
Lajetchnikoff, by Thomas B. Shaw (in three volumes), Edinburgh and
London, 1844, and again, under the title _The Heretic and the Maid of
Moscow, a Romance of Russia_, by Thos. B. Shaw, London, 1849.
THE HERETIC
PROLOGUE
It was the 27th of October, 1505. As if for the coronation of a Tsar,
Moscow was decorated and adorned. The Cathedral of the Assumption, the
Church of the Annunciation, the Stone Palace, the Tower Palace, the
Kreml with its towers, a multitude of stone churches and houses
scattered over the city--all this, just come out of the hands of skilful
architects, bore the stamp of freshness and newness, as if it had risen
up in one day by an almighty will. In reality, all this had been created
in a short time by the genius of Ioánn III. A person who, thirty years
back, had left Moscow, poor, insignificant, resembling a large village,
surrounded by hamlets, would not have recognised it had he seen it now;
so soon had all Russia arisen at the single manly call of this great
genius.
Taking the colossal infant under his princely guardianship, he had torn
off its swaddling bands, and not by years, but by hours, he reared it to
a giant vigour. Nóvgorod and Pskov, which had never vailed their bonnet
to mortal man, had yet doffed it to him, and had even brought him the
tribute of liberty and gold: the yoke of the Khans had been cast off,
and hurled beyond the frontiers of the Russian land; Kazán, though she
had taken cover from the mighty hunter, yet had taken cover like the
she-wolf that has no earth,--her territories had melted away, and were
united into one mighty appanage; and the ruler who created all this was
the first Russian sovereign who realised the idea of a Tsar.
Nevertheless, on the 27th of October, 1505, the Moscow which he had thus
adorned was preparing for a spectacle not joyful but melancholy. Ioánn,
enfeebled in mind and body, lay upon his death-bed. He had forgotten his
great exploits; he remembered only his sins, and repented of them.
It was towards the evening-tide. In the churches gleamed the lonely
lamps; through the mica and bladder panes of the windows glimmered the
fires, kindled in their houses by faith or by necessity. But nowhere was
it popular love which had lighted them; for the people did not
comprehend the services of the great man, and loved him not for his
innovations. At one corner of the prison, the Black House, but later
than the other houses, was illumined by a weak and flickering light. On
the bladder which was the substitute for glass in the window, the iron
grating, with its spikes, threw a net-like shadow, which was only
relieved by a speck, at one moment glittering like a spark, at another
emitting a whirling stream of vapour. It was evident that the prisoner
had made this opening in the bladder, in order, unperceived by his
guards, to look forth upon the light of heaven.
This was part of the prison, and in it even now was pining a youthful
captive. He seemed not more than twenty. So young! What early
transgression could have brought him here? From his face you would not
believe in such transgressions; you would not believe that God could
have created that fair aspect to deceive. So handsome and so noble that
you would think never had one evil intention passed over that tranquil
brow, never had one passion played in those eyes, filled with love to
his neighbour and calm melancholy. And yet, by his tall and majestic
figure, as he starts from his reverie, and shakes his raven curls, he
seems to be born a lord, and not a slave. His hands are white and
delicate as a woman’s. On the throat of his shirt blazes a button of
emerald; in the damp and smoky room, on a broad bench against the wall,
are a feather-bed with a pillow of damask, and with a silken covering;
and by the bedside a coffer of white bone in filigree work. Evidently he
is not a common prisoner. No common prisoner!--no, he is a crowned
prince!--and pure in thought and deed as the dwellers of the skies.
All his crime is a diadem, which he did not seek, and which was placed
on his head by the caprice of his sovereign; in no treason, in no crime
had he been accomplice; he was guilty by the guilt of others,--by the
ambition of two women, the intrigues of the courtiers, the anger of his
grandfather against the others, and not against him. They had destined
him a throne, and they had dragged him to a dungeon. He understood not
why they crowned him, and now he understands not why they deprived him
of liberty,--of the light of heaven,--of all that they deny not even to
the meanest. For him his nearest kinsman dared not even pray aloud.
This was the grandson of Iván III., the only child of his beloved
son,--Dmítri Ivánovich.
At one time he sat in melancholy musing, resting his elbows on his
knees, and losing his fingers in the dark curls of his hair; then he
would arise, then lie down. He was restless as though they had given him
poison. No one was with him. A solitary taper lighted up his miserable
abode. The stillness of the room was disturbed only by the drops from
the ceiling, or the mice nibbling the crumbs that had fallen from the
captive’s table. The little light now died away, now flared up again;
and in these flashes it seemed as though rows of gigantic spiders crept
along the wall. In reality, these were scribbling in various languages,
scrawled with charcoal or with a nail. Hardly was it possible to spell
out among them--“Matheas,” “Marfa, burgomistress of Nóvgorod the Great,”
“Accursed be----,” “Liebe Mutter, liebe A----”; and several words more,
half obliterated by the damp which had trickled along the wall, or been
scratched out by the anger or the ignorance of the guards.
The door of the dungeon softly opened. Dmítri Ivánovich started up.
“Afóniya, is it thou?” he joyfully enquired; but seeing that he had
mistaken for another the person who entered, he exclaimed sadly: “Ah, is
it thou, Nebogáty! Why cometh not Afóniya? I am sad, I am lonely, I am
devoured by grief, as if a serpent lay at my heart. Didst thou not say
that Afóniya would come as soon as they lighted the candles in the
houses?”
“Afanási Nikítin[6] hath a mind as single as his eye,” said the deacon
Dmítri Nebogáty, a kind and good-natured officer, yet strict in the
performance of the charge given him by the Great Prince, of guarding his
grandson. (We may remark that at this time he, in consequence of the
illness of Dmítri, the treasurer and groom of the bedchamber, fulfilled
their duties. All honour to a prince, even though he be a prisoner!)
“Make thyself easy, Dmítri Ivánovich; soon, be sure, will come our
orator. Thou wottest thyself he groweth infirm, he seeth not well, and
so must grope along the wall; and till he cometh, my dear child, play,
amuse thyself with thy toys. Sit down cozily on thy bed; I will give
thee thy coffer.”
And Dmítri Ivánovich, a child, though he was more than twenty years old,
to escape from the weariness that oppressed him, instantly accepted the
proposition of his deacon, sat down with his feet on his bed, took the
ivory box upon his knees, and opened it with a key that hung at his
girdle. By degrees, one after the other, he drew out into the light a
number of precious articles which had been imprisoned in the coffer.
The young prince held up to the fire, now a chain of gold with bears’
heads carved on the links, or a girdle of scaly gold, then signet rings
of jacinth or emerald, then crucifixes, collars, bracelets, precious
studs: he admired them, threw the collars round his neck, and asked the
deacon whether they became him; took orient pearls and rubies by the
handful, let them stream like rain through his fingers, amused himself
in playing with them, like an absolute child--and suddenly, hearing a
voice in the neighbouring chamber, threw them all back anyhow into the
coffer. His face lighted up.
“’T is Afóniya!” he cried, giving back the box to the deacon, and
descending from the bed.
“Lock it, Dmítri Ivánovich!” said Nebogáty firmly: “without that I will
not receive it.”
Hastily clinked the key in the coffer; the door opened, and there
entered the room an old man of low stature, bowed down by the burden of
years; the silver of his hair was already becoming golden with age. From
the top of his head to the corner of his left eye was deeply gashed a
scar, which had thus let fall an eternal curtain before that eye, and
therefore the other was fixed in its place, like a precious stone of
wondrous water, for it glittered with unusual brilliancy, and seemed to
see for itself and for its unfortunate twin brother. No son more
affectionately meets a tenderly beloved father than Dmítri Ivánovich met
the old man. Joy sparkled in the eyes of the Tsarévich, and spoke in his
every gesture.
He took his guest’s walking-staff, shook from his dress the powdered
snow, embraced him, and seated him in the place of honour on his bed.
Nevertheless, the guest was no more than Afanási Nikítin, a merchant of
Tver, a trader without trade, without money, poor, but rich in
knowledge, which he had acquired in an adventurous journey to India,
rich in experience and fancies, which he knew how to adorn beside with a
sweet and enchanting eloquence. He lived on the charity of his friends,
and yet was no man’s debtor: the rich he paid with his tales, and to the
poor he gave them for nothing. He was allowed to visit the Great Prince
Dmítri Ivánovich (whom, however, it was forbidden to call Great Prince).
We may judge how delightfully he filled up the dreadful solitude of the
youth’s imprisonment, and how dear he therefore was to the captive. And
what did Dmítri give him for his labour? Much, very much to a good
heart,--his delight, the only pleasure left him in the world,--and this
reward the Tver man would not have exchanged for gold. Once the
Tsarévich had desired to present him with one of the precious articles
from his ivory box; but the deacon gently reminded the captive that all
the articles in his coffer were his, that he might play with them as
much as he pleased, but that he was not at liberty to dispose of them.
The day before Afanási Nikítin had begun a tale about the “Almayne,”
surnamed the _Heretic_. To-day, when he had seated himself, he continued
it. His speech flowed on like the song of a nightingale, which we listen
to from the flush of morning till the glow of eve without shutting our
eyes even for a moment. Greedily did the Tsarévich listen to the
story-teller, his cheeks burned, and often tears streamed from his eyes.
Far, very far, he was borne away from his dungeon, and only from time to
time the rude brawling of the guards behind the partition-wall recalled
him to bitter reality. In the meantime the deacon Nebogáty’s pen was
hurriedly scratching along the parchment: the sheets, pasted one to
another in a long line, were fast covered with strange hieroglyphics,
and wound up into a huge roll. He was writing down from Afanási
Nikítin’s mouth, _A tale touching a certain Almayne, surnamed the
Heretic_.
Suddenly, in the midst of the tale, there rushed into the dungeon the
court officer of the Great Prince. “Iván Vasílevich is about to render
up his soul to God,” said he hastily; “he grieveth much about thee, and
hath sent for thee. Make haste!”
The prince was convulsively agitated. Over his face, which became as
white as a sheet, passed some thought; it flashed in his eyes. Oh, this
was a thought of Paradise! Freedom----a crown----the
people----mercy----perhaps a block----what was there not in that
thought? The captive--the child who had just been playing with
jewels--arose the Great Prince of all Russia.
Iván was still a sovereign, though on his dying bed; death had not yet
locked for ever his lips, and those lips might yet determine on his
successor. The thoughts of another life, remorse, an interview with his
grandson, whom he had himself of his own free will crowned Tsar, and
whom they had just brought from a dungeon,--what force must these
thoughts have on the will of the dying man!
They gave the prince his bonnet, and just as he stood, conducted by the
deacon and other officers, he hastened to the Great Prince’s palace. In
the hall he encountered the sobbing of the kinsmen and servants of the
Tsar. “It is over!--My grandsire is dead!” thought he, and his heart
sunk within him, his steps tottered.
The appearance of Dmítri Ivánovich in the palace of the Great Prince
interrupted for a time the general lamentation, real and feigned. The
unexpectedness, the novelty of the object, the strange fate of the
prince, pity, the thought that he, perhaps, would be the sovereign of
Russia in a moment, overwhelmed the minds and hearts of the courtiers.
But even at this period there were among the long-beards some wise
heads: acute, far-sighted calculations, which we now call politics, were
then as now oracles of fate, and though sometimes, as happens even in
our own days, they were overthrown by the mighty hand of Providence.
These calculations triumphed over the momentary astonishment; the tears
and sobbing began again, and were communicated to the crowd. Only one
voice, amidst the expressions of simulated woe, ventured to raise itself
above them: “Haste, my lord, our native prince,--thou hast been sent for
no short time,--Iván Vasílevich is yet alive,--the Lord bless thee, and
make thee our Great Prince!”
This voice reassured the youth; but when he was about to enter the
bedchamber where the dying man lay, his strength began to fail. The door
opened; his feet seemed nailed to the threshold. Iván had only a few
minutes left to live. It seemed as if death awaited only the arrival of
his grandson, to give him his dismissal. Around his bed stood his sons,
the primate, his favourite boyárs, his kinsmen.
“Hither,--to me, Dmítri,--my dear grandson,” said the Great Prince,
recognising him through the mists of death.
Dmítri Ivánovich threw himself towards the bed, fell upon his knees,
kissed the cold hand of his grandsire, and bedewed it with tears. The
dying man, as if by the power of galvanism, raised himself, laid one
hand on his grandson’s head, with the other blessed him, then spoke in a
breathless voice: “I have sinned before God and thee----Forgive
me----forgive----The Lord and I have crowned thee----be----my----”
The face of Vasíli Ioánnovich was convulsed with envy and fear. Yet one
word more----
But death then stood on the side of the strongest, and that word was
never pronounced in this world. The Great Prince Iván Vasílevich yielded
up his last breath, applying his cold lips to the forehead of his
grandson. His son, who had been earlier designated by him as his heir,
immediately entered into all his rights. They tore Dmítri from the
death-bed, led him out of the Great Prince’s palace, and conducted him
back to his dungeon. There, stretched on his bed, was reposing Afóniya
in the deep slumber of the just. Having bewailed his woes, the ill-fated
Dmítri lay down beside the old man. Prince and peasant were there equal.
The one dreamed that night of royal banquets, and of a glorious crown,
glittering like fire, upon his head, and of giving audience to foreign
ambassadors, and reviewing vast armies; the other, of the hospitable
palm and the rivulet in the deserts of Arabia. The poor man awaked the
first, and how was he surprised to find the Tsarévich by his side!
Mournfully he shook his hoary head, and wept, and was about to bless
him, when he heard the joyful gallant cry of Dmítri Ivánovich as he
dreamed--“Warriors!----on the Tartars!----on Lithuania!----”
And immediately awoke the young prince. Long he rubbed his eyes, and
gazed around him, and then, falling on Afóniya’s bosom, he melted into
tears. “Ah, father, father, I have been dreaming----”
His words were strangled by sobs.
Soon all that he had seen and heard in the palace of the Great Prince
began to appear to him as a dream. Only when he recalled to his memory
that weary vision, he felt on his forehead the icy seal which had been
placed on it by the lips of the dying Tsar.
The winter came: all was as before in the Black House; nothing but the
decorations of the scene had changed: the uniform sound of the falling
drops was dumb, the bright speck had vanished from the bladder
window-pane; instead, a silvery film of frost adhered to the corners of
the walls and the crevices of the ceiling, and the bright speck, through
which the captive could see the heavens, with their sun and free birds,
was veiled with a thick patch. But Afóniya, as of old, visited the
dungeon. He had finished his tale of the Almayne, whom they called the
Heretic, and the scribe Nebogáty, putting it on paper word for word, had
placed the roll in his iron chest,--an amusement for his descendants.
Thus passed a little more than three years.
The royal prisoner was no longer in the dungeon, and Afanási Nikítin was
seen no more within it. Assuredly Dmítri Ivánovich had been set at
liberty. Yes, the Lord had set him free from all earthly bonds. Thus
writes an annalist: “In the year 1509, on the fourteenth of February,
departed this life the Grand Prince Dmítri Ivánovich, in prison.”
Gerberstein adds: “It is thought he was starved--with cold or with
hunger--to death, or stifled with smoke.”--From _The Heretic_,
translated from the Russian by Thomas B. Shaw, Edinburgh and London,
1844.
[6] See vol. i., p. 111.
Baron Antón Antónovich Délvig. (1798-1831.)
Délvig entered the Lyceum at Tsárskoe-Seló on the same day with
Púshkin, whose friend he remained to his death. He began writing
poetry at about the same time as his more gifted schoolmate. At first
he confined himself to more or less close imitations of Horace, but
under Púshkin’s influence he soon turned his attention to original
poems. Though only a star of the second magnitude, his verses became
very popular and were set to music. Later they served as the
starting-point for the popular poets, Koltsóv, Nekrásov, and others.
GLOOMY THOUGHTS
To-day I feast with you, dear friends,
With joy our spirits burn;
To-morrow’s chance may find me there
Whence I shall not return.
Thus, long ago, I spake to those
Who were with merriment wild;
For gloomy thoughts of coming grief
Possessed me from a child.
My laughing friends around my locks
Enwreathed a fresh bright crown;
“For shame!” they cried; “youth’s not a time
To wear a moody frown.”
War breaking out, my friends to it
As to a banquet prest;
I with them; but me cruel fate
Soon parted from the rest.
In weary idleness their steps
I followed mentally;
And oft their relatives I cheered
With words of victory.
Time passed: the thoughts of days gone by
Sad tears of sorrow yield;
Then ceased the war. Where are my friends?
Dead on the battlefield.
Now I am sorrowful at feasts,
Where others’ joy is great;
In wine-cups e’en the past recalled
Embitters all my state.
--From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_.
───────
Sang a little bird, and sang,
And grew silent;
Knew the heart of merriment,
And forgot it.
Why, O little songster bird,
Grew you quiet?
How learned you, O heart, to know
Gloomy sorrow?
Ah! the little bird was killed
By grim snow-blasts;
Perished is the fellow brave
Through ill gossips!
Had the bird but flown away
Tow’rds the blue sea!
Had the youth but run away
Tow’rds the forest!
On the sea the billows roar,
And not snow-blasts;
In the woods are evil beasts,
And not people!
───────
Ah, you night, you little night!
Ah, you night, you stormy night!
Why from early evening tide
Even to the midnight late
Twinkle not your little stars,
Shineth not your full-orbed moon?
You are veiled with darkling clouds!
’T is with you, I think, O night,
Even as with me, young man,--
Villain grief has called on us!
When the dire one takes abode
Somewhere deep within the heart,--
You forget the lasses fair,
Dances and obeisances;
You forget from evening tide
Even to the midnight late,
Singing songs, to take delight
In the chorus and the dance.
No, you sob, you weep aloud,--
And, a sad and lonely lad,
You upon your coarse straw bed
Throw yourself as in the grave!
Aleksándr Sergyéevich Púshkin. (1799-1837.)
Púshkin was descended, on his father’s side, from a family of
distinguished men, and, on his mother’s side, from Peter the Great’s
favourite negro, Hannibal. Having early lost his mother, he was
brought up by his grandmother, but the greatest influence upon his
first education had his nurse, Arína Rodiónovna, who charmed him with
her rich stock of popular stories and fairy tales, and who, even later
in life, inspired him with national themes. In 1811 Púshkin entered
the newly opened Lyceum at Tsárskoe Seló, where he did not display any
especial aptitude for studies; but he soon began to write poetry, and
in 1817, at graduation, read his own production which attracted
attention. After leaving school he threw himself into the whirl of
society pleasures, but at the same time devoted himself to his first
great poem, still in the Romantic style of the older generation,
_Ruslán and Lyudmíla_. In 1820 he incurred the displeasure of the
Government for writing some verses on liberty and for his liberal
utterances. He was banished to the south, passing part of the time in
the Caucasus. Here his genius was unfolded in all its greatness. In
the Caucasus he wrote _The Prisoner of the Caucasus_; the Crimea gave
him material for his _Bakhchisaráy Fountain_; in the neighbourhood of
Odessa he composed his _Gypsies_ and laid the foundation for _Evgéni
Onyégin_, besides writing a large number of smaller poems. In 1824
Púshkin was permitted to return to his native village, in the
Government of Pskov, where he remained two years, after which he was,
by the intercession of his friends, allowed to settle in the capitals.
In this last period of his activity he devoted himself more especially
to subjects taken from Russian life. He wrote his series of fairy
tales, illustrated the acts of Peter the Great by a number of poems,
of which _The Bronze Rider_ is the best known, and wrote a _History of
the Pugachév Rebellion_. Aspersion upon his domestic life caused him
to challenge to a duel the son of the Dutch ambassador, by whom he was
killed in 1837, in his thirty-eighth year.
Púshkin’s great poetical genius has not been surpassed by that of any
other Russian poet, and has only been equalled by that of Lérmontov.
All the later generations have drawn their inspiration from him. Since
the forties his importance has been obscured by the universal
domination of the democratic spirit in literature, as evidenced in the
Russian novel. The celebration of the centennary anniversary of his
birth has given rise to a wide-spread interest in Púshkin, and his
influence is again in the ascendant.
Púshkin’s prose tales have often been translated into English: _Queen
of Spades_, in Chambers’s Papers, 1850, and Living Age, 1850, also in
Gift of Friendship, 1854; _The Captain’s Daughter_, translated by J.
F. Hanstein, London, 1859; some tales in _Simple Tales, a Reading Book
for Little Folks_, by Mary Anna Pietzker, St. Petersburg, 1860; _The
Pistolshot_, in the Albion, 1861; _Russian Romance_ (consisting of
miscellaneous tales), by Mrs. J. B. Telfer (_née_ Mouravieff), London,
1873 and 1880; _Queen of Spades_, in Lippincott’s Magazine, 1876;
_Marie, a Story of Russian Love_, by Marie H. de Zielinska, Chicago,
1877 (1876); _The Captain’s Daughter, a Tale of the Time of Catherine
II. of Russia_, translated by Madame Igelström and Mrs. Percy Easton,
London, 1883; _Queen of Spades_, in Modern Age, 1884; _The Daughter of
the Commandant, a Russian Romance_, translated by Mrs. Milne Home,
London, 1891; _The Queen of Spades and Other Stories_, from the
Russian, by Mrs. Sutherland Edwards (the first three stories had
appeared before in the Strand Magazine), London, 1892; _Tales from the
Russian_, I.--_Dubrovsky_ (in Railway and General Automatic Library),
London, 1892; _The Prose Tales of A. Poushkin_, from the Russian, by
T. Keane, London, 1894 and 1896.
Of his poetical works the following have been translated: Extracts
from _Ruslán and Lyudmíla_, _The Prisoner_, _The Robbers_, in _Russian
Literature and Poetry_, in Foreign Review, 1827; extracts from _The
Fountain of Bakhchisaráy_ and _Poltava_ in The Foreign Quarterly
Review, 1832; _The Talisman_, with Other Pieces (_The Hermit_),
translated by George Borrow, St. Petersburg, 1835; _Pushkin, the
Russian Poet_ (containing _October 19, 1825_, _Caucasus_, _To ----_,
_The Mob_, _The Black Shawl_, _The Rose_, _Napoleon_, _The Storm_,
_The General_, _Alas for Her_, _To the Sea_, _Echo_, _The Lay of the
Wise Oleg_, _Remembrance_, _I have outlived the hopes that charmed
me_, _Motion_, _To the Slanderers of Russia_, _Presentiment_, _The
Madonna_, _André Chénier_), by T. B. Shaw, in The Edinburgh Blackwood
Magazine, 1845; _The Bakhchesarian Fountain_, W. D. Lewis,
Philadelphia, 1849; several poems, by W. R. Morfill, in Constitutional
Press, 1860; _On the Calumniators of Russia_, by W. R. Morfill, in
Literary Gazette, 1861; _Translations from Russian and German Poets_,
by a Russian Lady (containing two extracts from _The Gypsies_, _The
Poet_, _The Angel_, _The 19th of October_, _The Demon_, and several
minor poems), Baden-Baden, 1878; _Eugene Oneguine_, translated by
Lieut. Col. Spalding, London, 1881; _The Black Shawl_, _The Talisman_,
_Ode to the Sea_, and several extracts (the first two, amended, in
_The Story of Russia_, New York and London, 1890), by W. R. Morfill,
in Westminster Review, 1883; _The Flower_, _The Birds_, _The
Bridegroom_, _The Winter Journey_, _The Anchor_, _Poltava_, _Song of
Oleg the Wise_, _To ----_, _The Angel_, _The Demons_, in C. T.
Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887; _Poems by Alexander Pushkin_,
translated by Ivan Panin, Boston, 1888; parts of _Boris Godunov_ in
_Shakespeare and the Russian Drama_, by N. H. Dole, in Poet Lore, vol.
i. (1889); _I wander down the noisy streets_, _Anacreontic_, _To his
Wife_, _Let me not lose my senses_, _I’ve overlived aspirings_, _Peter
the Great_, _The Prophet_, _Play_, _My Kathleen_, _A Monument_, _The
Poet_, in John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_, London, 1891. In
Free Russia have appeared: by Charlotte Sidgwick, in vol. x., No. 1,
_The Poison-Tree_, _ib._, No. 3, _The Monument_; by Mrs. M. G. Walker,
in vol. x., No. 4, _The Prophet_; by Elizabeth Gibson, vol. xii., No.
2, _A Message_. In The Anglo-Russian Literary Society have been
published: some verses, by a Russian lady, in No. 11; by F. P.
Marchant, _Scene from “Boris Godunov,”_ in No. 13, _The Shield of
Oleg_, in No. 15, _The Prophet_, _The Three Springs_, _The Prayer_,
_Truth_, in No. 22, _To My Friends_, in No. 32; by J. Pollen, _The
Talisman_, in No. 22; by Miss H. Frank, _The Demons_, in No. 34; by L.
A. Magnus, _Through clam’rous streets my feet may stray_, in No. 33.
In the Library of the World’s Best Literature are given: by N. H.
Dole, _The Bard_, _The Angel_, _The Free Life of the Bird_ (a
different version of this poem is given below); reprints of several of
T. B. Shaw’s and J. Pollen’s poems, and extracts from _Boris Godunov_
and _Evgeni Onyegin_, by Miss I. Hapgood.
FROM “THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER”
As I crossed the square I saw several Bashkirs assembled round the
gibbets, engaged in dragging off the boots of those who had been hanged.
With difficulty I repressed my indignation, feeling convinced that if I
gave expression to it, it would have been perfectly useless. The
brigands invaded every part of the fortress, and plundered the officers’
houses. On every side resounded the shouts of the drunken mutineers. I
reached home. Savélich met me on the threshold.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed when he saw me; “I was beginning to think that
the villains had seized you again. Ah! my little father, Peter Andréich,
will you believe it, the robbers have plundered us of
everything--clothes, linen, furniture, plate--they have not left us a
single thing. But what does it matter? Thank God! they have spared your
life. But, my lord, did you recognise their leader?”
“No, I did not recognise him. Who is he then?”
“How, my little father! Have you forgotten that drunken scoundrel who
swindled you out of the pelisse at the inn? A brand new hairskin
pelisse; and the beast burst the seams in putting it on.”
I was astounded. In truth, the resemblance of Pugachév to my guide was
very striking. I felt convinced that Pugachév and he were one and the
same person, and then I understood why he had spared my life. I could
not but feel surprised at the strange connection of events--a child’s
pelisse, given to a roving vagrant, had saved me from the hangman’s
noose, and a drunkard, who had passed his life in wandering from one inn
to another, was now besieging fortresses and shaking the empire!
“Will you not eat something?” asked Savélich, still faithful to his old
habits. “There is nothing in the house; but I will go and search, and
get something ready for you.”
When I was left alone, I began to reflect. What was I to do? To remain
in the fortress now that it was in the hands of the villain, or to join
his band, was unworthy of an officer. Duty demanded that I should go
wherever my services might still be of use to my fatherland in the
present critical position of its affairs---- But love strongly urged me
to remain near Maria Ivánovna and be her protector and defender.
Although I foresaw a speedy and inevitable change in the course of
affairs, yet I could not help trembling when I thought of the danger of
her situation. My reflections were interrupted by the arrival of one of
the Cossacks, who came to inform me that “the great Tsar required me to
appear before him.”
“Where is he?” I asked, preparing to obey.
“In the Commandant’s house,” replied the Cossack. “After dinner our
father took a bath, but at present he is resting. Ah! your Excellency,
it is very evident that he is a distinguished person; at dinner he
deigned to eat two roasted sucking pigs, then he entered the bath, where
the water was so hot that even Tarás Kúrochkin could not bear it; he had
to give the besom to Fomká Bikbáev, and only came to himself through
having cold water poured over him. There is no denying it; all his ways
are majestic---- And I was told that in the bath he showed his Tsar’s
signs upon his breast: on one side a two-headed eagle as large as a
five-kopek piece, and on the other his own likeness.”
I did not consider it necessary to contradict the Cossack’s statement,
and I accompanied him to the Commandant’s house, trying to imagine
beforehand what kind of a reception I should meet with from Pugachév,
and endeavouring to guess how it would end. The reader will easily
understand that I did not by any means feel easy within myself.
It was beginning to get dark when I reached the Commandant’s house. The
gibbet, with its victims, loomed black and terrible before me. The body
of the poor Commandant’s wife still lay at the bottom of the steps, near
which two Cossacks stood on guard. The Cossack who accompanied me went
in to announce me, and, returning almost immediately, conducted me into
the room where, the evening before, I had taken a tender farewell of
Maria Ivánovna. An unusual spectacle presented itself to my gaze. At a
table, covered with a cloth and loaded with bottles and glasses, sat
Pugachév and some half a score of Cossack chiefs, in coloured caps and
shirts, heated with wine, with flushed faces and flashing eyes. I did
not see among them Shvabrín and his fellow traitor, the orderly.
“Ah! your Excellency!” said Pugachév, seeing me. “Welcome; honour to you
and a place at our banquet.”
The guests moved closer together. I sat down silently at the end of the
table. My neighbour, a young Cossack, tall and handsome, poured out for
me a glass of wine, which, however, I did not touch. I began to observe
the company with curiosity. Pugachév occupied the seat of honour, his
elbows resting on the table, and his broad fist propped under his black
beard. His features, regular and sufficiently agreeable, had nothing
fierce about them. He frequently turned to speak to a man of about fifty
years of age, addressing him sometimes as Count, sometimes as Timoféich,
sometimes as uncle. All those present treated each other as comrades,
and did not show any particular respect for their leader. The
conversation was upon the revolt, and of their future operations. Each
one boasted of what he had done, expressed his opinion, and fearlessly
contradicted Pugachév. And in this strange council of war it was
resolved to march upon Orenbúrg; a bold movement, and which was to be
very nearly crowned with success. The march was fixed for the following
day.
“Now, lads,” said Pugachév, “before we retire to rest, let us have my
favourite song. Chumakóv, begin!”
My neighbour sang, in a shrill voice, the following melancholy peasant’s
song, and all joined in the chorus:
“Stir not, mother, green forest of oak,
Disturb me not in my meditation;
For to-morrow before the court I must go,
Before the stern judge, before the Tsar himself.
The great Lord Tsar will begin to question me:
‘Tell me, young man, tell me, thou peasant’s son,
With whom have you stolen, with whom have you robbed?
Did you have many companions with you?’
‘I will tell you, true-believing Tsar,
The whole truth I will confess to you.
My companions were four in number:
My first companion was the dark night,
My second companion was a steel knife,
My third companion was my good horse,
My fourth companion was my taut bow,
My messengers were my tempered arrows.’
Then speaks my hope, the true-believing Tsar:
‘Well done, my lad, brave peasant’s son;
You knew how to steal, you knew how to reply:
Therefore, my lad, I will make you a present
Of a very high structure in the midst of a field--
Of two upright posts with a cross-beam above.’”
It is impossible to describe the effect produced upon me by this popular
gallows song, trolled out by men destined for the gallows. Their
ferocious countenances, their sonorous voices, and the melancholy
expression which they imparted to the words, which in themselves were
not very expressive, filled me with a sort of poetical terror.
The guests drank another glass, then rose from the table and took leave
of Pugachév.
I wanted to follow them, but Pugachév said to me:
“Sit down; I want to speak to you.”
We remained face to face.
For some moments we both continued silent. Pugachév looked at me
fixedly, every now and then winking his left eye with a curious
expression of craftiness and drollery. At last he burst out laughing,
and with such unfeigned merriment that I, too, looking at him, began to
laugh, without knowing why.
“Well, your lordship,” he said to me, “confess now, you were in a
terrible fright when my fellows put the rope round your neck. I do not
believe that the sky appeared bigger than a sheepskin to you just
then---- You would have been strung up to the crossbeam if it had not
been for your servant. I knew the old fellow at once. Well, would your
lordship have thought that the man who conducted you to the inn was the
great Tsar himself?”
Here he assumed an air of mystery and importance.
“You have been guilty of a serious offence against me,” continued he,
“but I pardoned you on account of your virtue, and because you rendered
me a service when I was compelled to hide myself from my enemies. But
you will see something very different presently! You will see how I will
reward you when I enter into possession of my kingdom! Will you promise
to serve me with zeal?”
The rascal’s question, and his insolence, appeared to me so amusing that
I could not help smiling.
“Why do you smile?” he asked, frowning. “Perhaps you do not believe that
I am the great Tsar? Is that so?--Answer plainly!”
I became confused. To acknowledge a vagabond as emperor was quite out of
the question; to do so seemed to me unpardonable cowardice. To tell him
to his face that he was an imposter was to expose myself to certain
death, and that which I was prepared to say beneath the gibbet before
the eyes of the crowd, in the first outburst of my indignation, appeared
to me now a useless boast. I hesitated. In gloomy silence Pugachév
awaited my reply. At last (and even now I remember that moment with
self-satisfaction) the sentiment of duty triumphed over my human
weakness. I replied to Pugachév:
“Listen, I will tell you the whole truth. Judge yourself: can I
acknowledge you as emperor? You, a sensible man, would know that it
would not be saying what I really thought.”
“Who am I, then, in your opinion?”
“God only knows; but whatever you may be, you are playing a dangerous
game.”
Pugachév threw a rapid glance at me.
“Then you do not believe,” said he, “that I am the Emperor Peter? Well,
be it so. But is not success the reward of the bold? Did not Gríshka
Otrépev reign in former days? Think of me what you please, but do not
leave me. What does it matter to you one way or the other? Whoever is
pope is father. Serve me faithfully and truly, and I will make you a
field-marshal and a prince. What do you say?”
“No,” I replied with firmness. “I am by birth a nobleman; I have taken
the oath of fealty to the Empress; I cannot serve you. If you really
wish me well, send me back to Orenbúrg.”
Pugachév reflected.
“But if I let you go,” said he, “will you at least promise not to serve
against me?”
“How can I promise you that?” I replied. “You yourself know that it does
not depend upon my will. If I am ordered to march against you, I must
go--there is no help for it. You yourself are now a chief; you demand
obedience from your followers. How would it seem if I refused to serve
when my services were needed? My life is in your hands; if you set me
free, I will thank you; if you put me to death, God will be your judge;
but I have told you the truth.”
My frankness struck Pugachév.
“Be it so,” said he, slapping me upon the shoulder. “One should either
punish completely or pardon completely. Go then where you like. Come
to-morrow to say good-bye to me, and now go to bed. I feel very drowsy
myself.”
I left Pugachév and went out into the street. The night was calm and
cold. The moon and stars were shining brightly, lighting up the square
and the gibbet. In the fortress all was dark and still. Only in the
tavern was a light visible, where could be heard the noise of the late
revellers. I glanced at the pope’s house. The shutters and doors were
closed. Everything seemed quiet within.
I made my way to my own quarters and found Savélich grieving about my
absence. The news of my being set at liberty filled him with unutterable
joy.
“Thanks be to Thee, Almighty God!” said he, making the sign of the
cross. “At daybreak to-morrow we will leave the fortress and go wherever
God will direct us. I have prepared something for you; eat it, my little
father, and then rest yourself till the morning, as if you were in the
bosom of Christ.”
I followed his advice and, having eaten with a good appetite, I fell
asleep upon the bare floor, worn out both in body and mind.--From T.
Keane’s _The Prose Tales of Alexander Poushkin_.
FROM “EVGÉNI ONYÉGIN”
TATYÁNA’S LETTER TO ONYÉGIN
I write to you! Is more required?
Can lower depths beyond remain?
’T is in your power now, if desired,
To crush me with a just disdain.
But if my lot unfortunate
You in the least commiserate
You will not all abandon me.
At first I clung to secrecy:
Believe me, of my present shame
You never would have heard the name,
If the fond hope I could have fanned
At times, if only once a week,
To see you by our fireside stand,
To listen to the words you speak,
Address to you one single phrase
And then to meditate for days
Of one thing till again we met.
’T is said you are a misanthrope,
In country solitude you mope,
And we--an unattractive set--
Can hearty welcome give alone.
Why did you visit our poor place?
Forgotten in the village lone,
I never should have seen your face
And bitter torment never known.
The untutored spirit’s pangs calmed down
By time (who can anticipate?)
I had found my predestinate,
Become a faithful wife and e’en
A fond and careful mother been.
Another! to none other I
My heart’s allegiance can resign,
My doom has been pronounced on high,
’T is Heaven’s will and I am thine.
The sum of my existence gone
But promise of our meeting gave,
I feel thou wast by God sent down
My guardian angel to the grave.
Thou didst to me in dreams appear,
Unseen thou wast already dear.
Thine eye subdued me with strange glance,
I heard thy voice’s resonance
Long ago. Dream it cannot be!
Scarce hadst thou entered thee I knew,
I flushed up, stupefied I grew,
And cried within myself: ’t is he!
Is it not truth? in tones suppressed
With thee I conversed when I bore
Comfort and succour to the poor,
And when I prayer to Heaven addressed
To ease the anguish of my breast.
Nay! even as this instant fled,
Was it not thou, O vision bright,
That glimmered through the radiant night
And gently hovered o’er my head?
Was it not thou who thus didst stoop
To whisper comfort, love, and hope?--
Who art thou? Guardian angel sent
Or torturer malevolent?
Doubt and uncertainty decide:
All this may be an empty dream,
Delusions of a mind untried,
Providence otherwise may deem--
Then be it so! My destiny
From henceforth I confide to thee!
Lo! at thy feet my tears I pour
And thy protection I implore.
Imagine! Here alone am I!
No one my anguish comprehends,
At times my reason almost bends,
And silently I here must die--
But I await thee: scarce alive,
My heart with but one look revive;
Or to disturb my dreams approach
Alas! with merited reproach.
’T is finished. Horrible to read!
With shame I shudder and with dread--
But boldly I myself resign:
Thine honour is my countersign!
--From Lieut.-Col. Spalding’s _Eugene Onéguine_, London, 1881.
FROM “THE BAKHCHISARÁY FOUNTAIN”
Days passed away; Maria slept
Peaceful, no cares disturbed her, now--
From earth the orphan maid was swept.
But who knew when, or where, or how?
If prey to grief or pain she fell,
If slain or Heaven-struck, who can tell?
She sleeps; her loss the chieftain grieves,
And his neglected harem leaves,
Flies from its tranquil precincts far,
And with his Tartars takes the field,
Fierce rushes mid the din of war,
And brave the foe that does not yield,
For mad despair hath nerved his arm,
Though in his heart is grief concealed,
With passion’s hopeless transports warm.
His blade he swings aloft in air
And wildly brandishes, then low
It falls, whilst he with pallid stare
Gazes, and tears in torrents flow.
His harem by the chief deserted,
In foreign lands he warring roved,
Long nor in wish nor thought reverted
To scene once cherished and beloved.
His women, to the eunuch’s rage
Abandoned, pined and sank in age.
The fair Grusinian now no more
Yielded her soul to passion’s power,
Her fate was with Maria’s blended,
On the same night their sorrows ended;
Seized by mute guards the hapless fair
Into a deep abyss they threw,--
If vast her crime, through love’s despair,
Her punishment was dreadful too!
At length th’ exhausted Khan returned,
Enough of waste his sword had dealt,
The Russian cot no longer burned,
Nor Caucasus his fury felt.
In token of Maria’s loss
A marble fountain he upreared
In spot recluse:--the Christian’s cross
Upon the monument appeared
(Surmounting it a crescent bright,
Emblem of ignorance and night!).
Th’ inscription mid the silent waste
Not yet has time’s rude hand effaced,
Still do the gurgling waters pour
Their streams dispensing sadness round,
As mothers weep for sons no more,
In never-ending sorrows drowned.
In morn fair maids, (and twilight late,)
Roam where this monument appears,
And pitying poor Maria’s fate
Entitle it the Fount of Tears!
--From W. D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_.
THE POISON-TREE
Remote and dire, in desert-lands
Where naught but sunburnt sod is seen,
Anchár, the Tree of Poison, stands--
A sentinel, with threatening mien.
The thirsty steppe-land gave it birth
In bitterness and anger dark;
It sucked foul venom from the earth,
Its roots and leaves are dead and stark.
At noon, when fiercest sunlight glows,
The poison from its veins escapes,
And trickling down the stem it flows
By evening into globèd shapes.
No bird will seek this Tree of Death,
Nor dare the tiger prowl anigh,
The hungry whirlwind’s dusty breath
Grows baneful as it hastens by.
If e’er a wand’ring cloud distil
Soft rains upon its blighted top,
Their harmless nature turns to ill,
And changed, in deadly dews they drop.
But yet a man’s imperial nod
Sent forth a fellow-man afar,
Whose meek, obedient footsteps trod,
Right to the base of foul Anchár.
By morning he returned, and bore
The fatal resin, with a bough
Of withered leaves, and like it wore
A wasted look--and from his brow
Cold sweat was streaming, and he tried
To stand, but fell to earth prostrate.
And there, poor slave! he sank and died
In presence of the Potentate,
Who sopped his arrows in the bane,
And sent them dark--a doom new-found!--
By messenger o’er hill and plain
To neighbours in the countries round.
--Transl. by Charlotte Sidgwick, in Free Russia, January, 1899
(vol. x., No. 1).
THE BIRD
Naught of labour, naught of sorrow,
On God’s little bird doth rest,
And it questions not the morrow,
Builds itself no lasting nest.
On the bough it sleeps and swings
Till the ruddy sun appears,
Then it shakes its wings and sings,
When the voice of God it hears.
After Spring’s delightful weather,
When the burning Summer’s fled,
And the Autumn brings together
For men’s sorrow, for men’s dread,
Mists and storms in gloomy legions;
Then the bird across the main
Flies to far-off, southern regions,
Till the Spring returns again.
--Transl. by N. H. Dole (publication unascertainable).
THE PROPHET
By spiritual thirst opprest,
I hied me to the desert dim,
When lo! upon my path appeared
The holy six-winged seraphim.
My brow his fingers lightly pressed,
Soothing my eyelids into rest:
Open my inward vision flies,
As ope a startled eaglet’s eyes.
He touched my ears, and they were filled
With sounds that all my being thrilled.
I felt a trembling fill the skies,
I heard the sweep of angels’ wings,
Beneath the sea saw creeping things,
And in the valleys vines arise.
Over my lips a while he hung,
And tore from me my sinful tongue--
The babbling tongue of vanity.
The sting of serpent’s subtlety
Within my lips, as chilled I stood,
He placed, with right hand red with blood.
Then with a sword my bosom cut,
And forth my quivering heart he drew;
A glowing coal of fire he put
Within my breast laid bare to view.
As corpse-like on the waste I lay,
Thus unto me God’s voice did say--
“Prophet, arise! Confess My Name;
Fulfil my will; submit to Me!
Arise! Go forth o’er land and sea,
And with high words men’s hearts inflame!”
--From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_.
THE TALISMAN
Where fierce the surge with awful bellow
Doth ever lash the rocky wall,
And where the moon most brightly mellow
Doth beam when mists of evening fall;
Where midst his harem’s countless blisses
The Moslem spends his vital span,
A sorceress there with gentle kisses
Presented me a Talisman.
And said: “Until thy latest minute
Preserve, preserve my Talisman;
A secret power it holds within it,--
’T was love, true love the gift did plan.
From pest on land or death on ocean
When hurricanes its surface fan,
O object of my fond devotion!
Thou scap’st not by my Talisman.
“The gem in eastern mine which slumbers,
Or ruddy gold ’t will not bestow;
’T will not subdue the turbanned numbers
Before the Prophet’s shrine which bow;
Nor high through air on friendly pinions
Can bear thee swift to home or clan,
From mournful climes or strange dominions,
From South to North,--my Talisman.
“But oh! when crafty eyes thy reason
With sorceries sudden seek to move,
And when in night’s mysterious season
Lips cling to thine,--but not in love,--
From proving then, dear youth, a booty
To those who falsely would trepan,
From new heart wounds, and lapse from duty,
Protect thee shall my Talisman.”
--From _The Talisman, and Other Pieces_, by George Borrow, St.
Petersburg, 1835.
THE LAY OF THE WISE OLÉG
Wise Olég to the war he hath bound him again,
The Khozárs have awakened his ire;
For rapine and raid, hamlet, city, and plain
Are devoted to falchion and fire.
In mail of Byzance, girt with many a good spear,
The Prince pricks along on his faithful destrere.
From the darksome fir-forest, to meet that array,
Forth paces a grey-haired magician:
To none but Perún did that sorcerer pray,
Fulfilling the prophet’s dread mission:
His life he had wasted in penance and pain:--
And beside that enchanter Olég drew his rein.
“Now rede me, enchanter, beloved of Perún,
The good and the ill that ’s before me;
Shall I soon give my neighbour-foes triumph, and soon
Shall the earth of the grave be piled o’er me?
Unfold all the truth; fear me not; and for meed,
Choose among them,--I give thee my best battle-steed.”
“O enchanters, they care not for prince or for peer,
And gifts are but needlessly given;
The wise tongue ne’er stumbleth for falsehood or fear,
’T is the friend of the councils of Heaven!
The years of the future are clouded and dark,
Yet on thy fair forehead thy fate I can mark:
“Remember now firmly the words of my tongue;
For the chief finds a rapture in glory:
On the gate of Byzantium thy buckler is hung,
Thy name shall be deathless in story;
Wild waves and broad kingdoms thy sceptre obey,
And the foe sees with envy so boundless a sway:
“And the blue sea, uplifting its treacherous wave,
In its wrath,--in the hurricane-hour,--
And the knife of the coward, the sword of the brave,
To slay thee shall never have power:
Within thy strong harness no wound shalt thou know,
For a guardian unseen shall defend thee below.
“Thy steed fears not labour, nor danger, nor pain,
His lord’s lightest accent he heareth,
Now still, though the arrows fall round him like rain,
Now o’er the red field he careereth;
He fears not the winter, he fears not to bleed,--
Yet thy death-wound shall come from thy good battle-steed!”
Olég smiled a moment, but yet on his brow,
And lip, thought and sorrow were blended:
In silence he bent on his saddle, and slow
The Prince from his courser descended;
And as though from a friend he were parting with pain,
He strokes his broad neck and his dark flowing mane.
“Farewell then, my comrade, fleet, faithful, and bold!
We must part,--such is Destiny’s power:
Now rest thee,--I swear, in thy stirrup of gold
No foot shall e’er rest, from this hour.
Farewell! we ’ve been comrades for many a long year,--
My squires, now I pray ye, come take my destrere.
“The softest of carpets his horse-cloth shall be:
And lead him away to the meadow;
On the choicest of corn he shall feed daintilie,
He shall drink of the well in the shadow.”
Then straightway departed the squires with the steed,
And to valiant Olég a fresh courser they lead.
Olég and his comrades are feasting, I trow;
The mead-cups are merrily clashing:
Their locks are as white as the dawn-lighted snow
On the peak of the mountain-top flashing:
They talk of old times, of the days of their pride,
And the fights where together they struck side by side.
“But where,” quoth Olég, “is my good battle-horse?
My mettlesome charger,--how fares he?
Is he playful as ever, as fleet in the course;
His age and his freedom how bears he?”
They answer and say: on the hill by the stream
He has long slept the slumber that knows not a dream.
Olég then grew thoughtful, and bent down his brow:
“O man, what can magic avail thee!
A false lying dotard, Enchanter, art thou:
Our rage and contempt shall assail thee.
My horse might have borne me till now, but for thee!”
Then the bones of his charger Olég went to see.
Olég he rode forth with his spearmen beside;
At his bridle Prince Ígor he hurried:
And they see on a hillock by Dnieper’s swift tide
Where the steed’s noble bones lie unburied:
They are washed by the rain, the dust o’er them is cast,
And above them the feather-grass waves in the blast.
Then the Prince set his foot on the courser’s white skull,
Saying: “Sleep, my old friend, in thy glory!
Thy lord hath outlived thee, his days are nigh full:
At his funeral feast, red and gory,
’T is not thou ’neath the axe that shall redden the sod,
That my dust may be pleasured to quaff thy brave blood.
“And am I to find my destruction in this?
My death in a skeleton seeking?”
From the skull of the courser a snake, with a hiss,
Crept forth as the hero was speaking:
Round his legs, like a ribbon, it twined its black ring;
And the Prince shrieked aloud as he felt the keen sting.
The mead-cups are foaming, they circle around,--
At Olég’s mighty Death-Feast they ’re ringing;
Prince Ígor and Ólga they sit on the mound;
The war-men the death-song are singing:
And they talk of old times, of the days of their pride,
And the fights where together they struck side by side.
--From T. B. Shaw’s _Pushkin, the Russian Poet_, in Blackwood’s
Magazine, 1845.
TO THE SLANDERERS OF RUSSIA
Why rave ye, babblers, so--ye lords of popular wonder?
Why such anathemas ’gainst Russia do you thunder?
What moves your idle rage? Is ’t Poland’s fallen pride?
’T is but Slavonic kin among themselves contending,
An ancient household strife, oft judged but still unending,
A question which, be sure, _ye_ never can decide.
For ages past still have contended
These races, though so near allied:
And oft ’neath Victory’s storm has bended
Now Poland’s, and now Russia’s side.
Which shall stand fast in such commotion,
The haughty Pole, or faithful Russ?
And shall Slavonic streams meet in a Russian ocean--
Or _that_ dry up? This is point for us.
Peace, peace! your eyes are all unable
To read our history’s bloody table;
Strange in your sight and dark must be
Our springs of household enmity!
To you the Kreml and Prága’s tower
Are voiceless all,--you mark the fate
And daring of the battle-hour,--
And understand us not, but hate----
What stirs ye? Is it that this nation
On Moscow’s flaming wall, blood-slaked and ruin-quenched,
Spurned back the insolent dictation
Of Him before whose nod ye blenched?
Is it that into dust we shattered
The Dagon that weighed down the earth so wearily?
And our best blood so freely scattered
To buy for Europe peace and liberty?
Ye ’re bold of tongue--but hard, would ye in deed but try it.
Or is the hero, now reclined in laurelled quiet,
Too weak to fix once more Izmail’s red bayonet?
Or hath the Russian Tsar ever in vain commanded?
Or must we meet all Europe banded?
Have we forgot to conquer yet?
Or rather, shall they not, from Perm to Tauris’ fountains,
From the hot Colchian steppes to Finland’s icy mountains,
From the grey Kreml’s half-shattered wall,
To far Kathay, in dotage buried,--
A steely rampart close and serried,
Rise, Russia’s warriors, one and all?
Then send your numbers without number,
Your maddened sons, your goaded slaves,
In Russia’s plains there ’s room to slumber,
And well they ’ll know their brethren’s graves!
--From T. B. Shaw’s _Pushkin, the Russian Poet_, in Blackwood’s
Magazine, 1845.
FROM “BORÍS GODUNÓV”
I
Night: _A cell in the Chúdov monastery_
FATHER PÍMEN, GRIGÓRI (sleeping).
_Pímen (writing before a lamp)._ Once more, one final anecdote, and
then
My manuscript will be complete, the task
On me, a sinner, laid by God, fulfilled.
’T is not for naught that during all these years
The Lord hath made me witness many things,
And taught me all the art of writing books.
When in the future some industrious monk
Shall find my hard-accomplished, nameless work,
He will, like me, illume his little lamp,
And, brushing off the dust of centuries,
Will copy down my truthful chronicle.
Then will the children of believers true
Read all the story of their native land,
Recall the labours of their mighty Tsars,
Performed for them, for glory and for right,
And humbly offer prayers that God will blot
The crimes, though dark, of him who wrought for them.
Thus, bent for many years I live anew.
The past before me rose its hurrying flood.
Is ’t long ago that like the angry sea
Time’s fateful surges broke in great events?
And now it rests in motionless repose!
Not many men my memory preserves,
Not many words are in my mind engrossed,
And all the rest for ever now are gone.
But day is nigh, my little lamp burns dim,
One more, one final story of the past! (_Writes._)
_Grigóri_ (_wakes_). That dream again? How strange! That cursèd
dream!
Thrice have I dreamed it! But the aged man
Still sits before his little lamp and writes.
He hath not closed his eyes the livelong night
In slumber: how I love his peaceful mien,
As, deeply buried in the past, his soul
Broods o’er the secret of his manuscript.
How gladly would I scan his precious line.
What writeth he: the Tatars’ bloody reign,--
The cruel deeds of John the Terrible?
The stormy council of old Nóvgorod?
The glories of the fatherland? In vain!
Nor in his glance nor in his lofty brow
Can one discern the secrets of his mind:
His mien is calm and full of majesty,
As well becomes an aged priest who looks
With cloudless eye on good and evil men
Impartially, detecting right and wrong
Or hatred or compassion knowing not.
_Pímen._ Art thou awake?
_Grigóri._ Thy blessing, honoured sire.
_Pímen._ The Lord His blessing grant thee, oh, my son,
To-day, hereafter, and for evermore!
_Grigóri._ Long has thy pen been busy, nor has sleep
Once brought thee sweet oblivion this night;
But some strange, diabolic vision hath disturbed
My rest: my enemy hath tormented me.
I dreamed that up the winding narrow stairs
I mounted to the windy tower alone;
Before me from the top all Moscow lay
Diminished like an ant-hill. Far below
The people swarmed and babbled in the square
And jeered at me with senseless ridicule.
Shame mastered me and terror overwhelmed,
And, falling headlong on my face, I waked.
’T is thrice that I have dreamed the selfsame dream.
Is ’t not a marvel?
_Pímen._ ’T is thy youthful blood
Makes sport of thee: by prayer and strenuous fast
Thy dreams will be with peaceful visions filled.
’T is e’en not otherwise with me when I,
Dazed with involuntary drowsiness,
E’er fail my soul with earnest prayer to guard--
My aged dreams are then disturbed with sin:
While scenes of banqueting torment me oft,
Now warlike camps or surging battles rude,
Now senseless dissipations of wild youth.
_Grigóri._ How gaily must have passed thy youthful days!
Thou wast in battle ’neath Kazán’s high walls;
Hast shared the wars in Lithuania’s plains;
Hast seen the wanton court of John the Great.
How fortunate! But I from earliest years
Have been immured in cells a needy monk!
Why should not I have had delight in war
And feasted at the table of the Tsar?
Then, when I reached like thee the term of life,
I might have turned me gladly from the world
And all its vanities, and shut myself
Within the calm retirement of a cell
To meditate upon my holy vows.
_Pímen._ Lament not, brother, that thou hast so soon
The world abandoned, that a loving God
Hath little of temptation sent to thee.
Take thou my word, a fascination strong
Is exercised upon us from afar,
By glory, luxury, and woman’s wiles.
Long have I lived and much have I enjoyed;
But only true enjoyment have I known
Since to the cloister God hath led my steps.
Recall the mightiest Tsars that have ever lived.
Who stands above them? God alone! And who
Would venture to oppose them? None! What then?
On them so sorely weighs the golden crown
They would exchange it gladly for the cowl.
E’en John the Tsar sought comfort and relief
Within the semblance of monastic rule.
His court, where swarmed his haughty favourites,
The novel aspect of a cloister took;
His body-guard, in sackcloth and in stole,
Appeared like docile monks, the while the Tsar,
Himself, the cruel Tsar, an abbot mild.
Myself have seen, here in this very cell--
(’T was then the abode of that most just of men,
Kiríll, who suffered much, and even then
I also had been led by God to see
The folly of the world)--myself have seen,
Here in this very cell, the mighty Tsar,
Grown weary of his mad designs and wrath,
Repenting, sit amongst us, meek and mild.
We stood before him silent, motionless,
And quietly he would converse with us,
Would hold the abbot and the brotherhood:
“Ye fathers, soon the wished-for hour will come,
When I ’ll appear with hunger to be saved;
Thou Nikodím, thou Sérgi, thou Kiríll,
And all of ye, accept my heartfelt vow!
I ’ll come to you a sinner in despair;
I ’ll take upon myself the monk’s harsh garb,
I ’ll fall, O holy father, at thy feet!”
Thus spoke the mighty ruler of the realm;
And gentle words flowed from his cruel lips,
And tears bedewed his cheeks; and we in tears
Would pray our Lord his sinful, suffering soul
To fill with everlasting love and peace.
But his son Feódor? Upon the throne
Vowed to perpetual silence, like a monk;
He sighed to lead a life of easy peace.
He straightway changed the royal palace-halls
To cloistered cells, the heavy cares of state
Did not at all disturb his saintly soul.
God mercifully gave the Tsar his peace;
And while he lived, our Russia, undisturbed
In taintless glory, owned his gentle sway.
But when he died, a miracle was wrought,
Unheard of: at his couch appeared a man
With face of flame, seen by the Tsar alone.
Feódor talked with him, and called him “Sire,”--
“Great Patriarch.” All around were filled with fear
To see the heavenly apparition there,
Because the holy father was not then
Within the chamber where the Tsar was laid.
When he appeared sweet fragrance filled the halls,
And like the sun his holy visage shone.
--From _Shakespeare and the Russian Drama_, by N. H. Dole, in
Poet-lore, vol. i., No. 11.
DEMONS
Clouds are shifting, clouds are flying,
Scarce the hidden moon’s pale light
On the drifting snow is lying,--
Wild the heavens, wild the night.
Swiftly o’er the stormswept lowland--
Jingle, jingle bells amain!
Swiftly still, though heavy-hearted,
Drive I o’er the frozen main.
“Ho there! driver, onward!” “Faster,
Good my lord, we may not go,
For the stormwind blinds me, master,
And the road is choked with snow.”
Useless all! the track is hidden;
We are lost to help and home;
From afar the demon spies us--
Closer circling see him come!
Ha! beside us he ’s careering,
Hissing, spitting,--now, I ween,
Round the steeds so madly veering
On the brink of yon ravine.
There--if near or far I know not--
He was whirling in my sight.
There again he pined and dwindled,
Vanished into empty night!
Clouds are shifting, clouds are flying,
Scarce the hidden moon’s pale light
On the drifting snow is lying,--
Wild the heavens, wild the night.
Courage fails to struggle longer,
Suddenly the sleigh bells cease--
Pause the team--Declare thou yonder--
Wolf or tree-stem--is it peace?
Hark, the wind is wailing sadly,
Loudly snort the startled team.
There, see there he gambols madly,
Through the murk his eyeballs gleam.
Once again the team has started--
Jingle, jingle bells amain!
Lo, the spirit-hosts assemble
O’er the faintly gleaming plain!
Form they have not, have no number,
Lightly whirling round, they seem
Like the dead leaves of November
In the moon’s uncertain beam.
Are they endless? whither fly they?
Why this wailful chanting, say!
Mourn they now their dead? In marriage
Give they, else, some witch away?
Clouds are shifting, clouds are flying,
Scarce the hidden moon’s pale light
On the drifting snow is lying,--
Wild the heavens, wild the night.
Still they come and still they vanish
In the darkness o’er the plain,
Still their moaning and imploring
Rends my very heart in twain!
--Transl. by Miss H. Frank, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society,
No. 34.
Evgéni Abrámovich Baratýnski. (1800-1844.)
Baratýnski was the most talented of all the contemporary poets of
Púshkin. He came of a distinguished family in the Government of
Tambóv. At fifteen years he entered the Corps of Pages, but was soon
expelled for some misdemeanour. This compelled his enlisting as a
common soldier in St. Petersburg, where he came at once in contact
with the leading poets of the day, and he began himself writing
verses. The following six years he passed in Finland, the austere
nature of which much impressed his mind and gave him ample material
for his melancholy Muse. After rising to the rank of a commissioned
officer, he retired and settled in Moscow. In 1843 he went abroad, and
the next year he suddenly died in Naples. His best production, _The
Gipsy Girl_, was at one time preferred to Púshkin’s poems, but he is
now chiefly remembered as the earliest and most brilliant of Russian
pessimistic poets.
In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887, is given _Faith
Rewarded_; the same, under the title _The Madonna_, translated by F.
P. Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 28.
FINLAND
Into your clefts you have received the poet, granite rocks of Finland,
eternal granites, guardian heroes of the land of the glacial crown. With
the lyre he is among you. His greeting is a greeting to the masses of
the rock, contemporaneous with the world. Like them may he for ever be
unchangeable!
How wondrously everything about me charms my eye: there with its
immeasurable waters the sea is welded with the heavens; here the dreamy
pine-forest has descended with heavy tread from the mountain rock, and
mirrors itself in the smooth waters! ’T is late: day is out, but the
vault of heaven is bright; night comes without darkness upon the Finnish
cliffs, and only for its own adornment it leads out upon the horizon a
useless choir of diamond stars. This is the country of Odin’s
children,--the distant nations of the storm! This is the cradle of their
restless days, consecrated to famous warrings!
Silent is the sounding shield, not heard the voice of the skald; the
flaming oak is extinguished; the stormy wind has scattered the solemn
calls, the sons know not the exploits of their fathers, and prone in the
dust lie the prostrate forms of their gods,--and all around me is deep
silence. O ye who carried war from shore to shore, where are ye, heroes
of the north? Your vestige has disappeared from your native land. Do ye
press your grieving eyes against the cliffs and swim, a misty host, up
in the clouds? Do ye? Give me answer, listen to my voice calling to you
in the silence of the night. Mighty sons of these threatening, eternal
cliffs! How were ye severed from your rocky fatherland? Why are ye sad?
Why have I read upon your melancholy faces the smile of chiding? And ye
have hid yourselves in the abode of shades! And time has not spared your
names! What are our exploits, what the glory of our days, what is our
windy tribe? Oh, everything will in its turn disappear in the abyss of
years! For all there is one law,--the law of annihilation. In all I hear
the mysterious greeting of sought-for forgetfulness.
But I,--for life’s sake loving life in ingloriousness,--shall I with
careless soul tremble before destiny? Though not eternal in time, I am
eternal for myself: does not the storm of time speak to imagination
alone? The moment belongs to me, as I belong to the moment. What care I
for past or future races? Not for them do I strum the soft-voiced
strings: though not listened to, I am sufficiently rewarded with sounds
for sounds, and with dreams for dreams.
SPRING
Spring, O spring! How pure the air, how clear the vault of heaven! With
its bright azure it blinds my eyes.
Spring, O spring! How, upon the pinions of the wind, caressing the
sunbeams, the clouds flit upon high!
The rivulets babble, the rivulets sparkle; roaring the river carries on
its triumphant back the uplifted ice.
The trees are still bare, but in the grove the old leaves, as before,
rustle under foot and emit fragrance.
Rising to the very sun and invisible in the clear height, the lark sings
the song of welcome to the spring.
What has happened to my soul? With the brook it is a brook, and with the
bird a bird: with one it babbles, with the other flies into heaven.
Why do sun and spring give it such joy? Does it, as a daughter of the
elements, make merry at their banquet?
Well, happy is he who there drinks oblivion from thought, who there is
carried far away from it!
TRUTH
Yearning since childhood for happiness, I have ever been poor in
happiness! Or shall I never attain it in the wilderness of existence?
My young dreams have flitted from the heart,--I do not recognise the
world: I am deprived of my former aim of hopes, but have no new aim.
“Senseless are you and all your wishes!” spoke to me a secret voice, and
I cast off for ever the best creations of my dreams.
But wherefore has the disappointment of the soul not been complete? Why
lives within me the blind pity of my youthful dreams?
Thus I once murmured, meditating about my heavy lot: suddenly I saw--it
was no dream--Truth before me.
“My light will show the path to happiness!” said she. “Let me but
wish,--and I will teach you, impassioned one, joyful dispassionateness:
“Though through me you may lose the heat of your heart; though, learning
to know people, you, perchance, frightened, may cease to love your
neighbours and your friends.
“I shall destroy all the charms of existence, but shall put your mind
aright; I shall pour an austere cold over your soul, but shall give it
calm.”
I trembled, as I listened to her words, and grievously I replied to her:
“O unearthly guest, sad is your visitation!
“Your light is the funereal light of all earthly joys! Your peace, alas!
is the melancholy peace of the grave, and it is terrible to the living!
“No, I am not yours: in your severe science I shall not find happiness!
Leave me: I will somehow manage to wander upon my path.
“Good-bye! or no: when my luminary in the starry height will begin to
grow dim, and when the time will come to forget all that to my heart is
dear,--
“Appear then! Open then my eyes, enlighten my mind, that, despising
life, I may without murmuring descend into the abode of night!”
Nikoláy Mikháylovich Yazýkov. (1803-1846.)
Yazýkov was born in Simbírsk, where he remained to his twelfth year.
In 1820 he entered the School of Mines at St. Petersburg, but before
graduating went to the university at Dorpat, from which he also failed
to get a diploma. He passed his student days in riotous bouts that
completely undermined his health. His anacreontic poems early
attracted the attention of Zhukóvski and Púshkin, and the latter
became a warm friend of his. He then settled in Moscow, where he
served in one of the governmental offices, and wrote a series of
poems, among which _To the Poet_, _The Conflagration_, and _A Spring
Night_ are his best. Ill health soon drove him abroad, and there he
composed his famous _To the Rhine_; his other poems of the same period
have a religious and patriotic tinge. Yazýkov’s poetry has been the
subject of much controversy: some deny the intrinsic value of his
productions, though all unite in extolling the exquisite musicalness
and harmony of his verse.
N. H. Dole has translated his _The Sailor_ (publication
unascertainable). In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887,
are given _The Earthquake_, _Evening_, _Prayer_.
THE SAILOR
Cruel is our lonely ocean,
Roaring always day and night;
Buried ’neath its wild commotion
Many a wreck lies, far from sight.
Courage, comrades! I, confiding,
To the free winds give my barque;
Forth it hastens, swiftly riding
O’er the billows grim and dark.
Thick the clouds fly o’er the heaven,
Fierce the gale grows,--black the waves;
Hither, thither we are driven,
While the waking whirlwind raves.
Courage, comrades! Peals the thunder,
High the watery heaps arise,
Yawning gulfs now draw us under,
Now we ’re lifted to the skies.
Yet behold, our ship is nearing
Through the storm the wished-for land;
See, the vaults of heaven are clearing,
See, the port is near at hand.
Thither but brave hearts and ready
Will the billows speed along!
Courage, comrades! straight and steady
Flies our vessel, stanch and strong.
--Transl. by N. H. Dole (publication not ascertainable).
THE STORM
Lo! behind the distant mountains is concealed the beautiful day; under
the protection of the woods above the waters the tremulous shade grows
ever longer in wavelike rows. In the river gleams the evening
star,--hills, vales, and shores are deserted: long processions of carts,
having left the fields, drive into the village. Now and then a watchdog
barks, or the breeze makes the leaves rustle in the darkling oak-forest,
or a bird flies timidly by, or a heavy, creaking waggon, drawn by a
tired horse, and counting off each plank with its wheels, crosses the
lightly poised bridge. And suddenly a broken, dull rattling is borne
over the river, already silent and dreamy,--and all is quiet again.
But in the distance, at the edge of the heavens, large, cloudy waves
have on all sides veiled the full moon: now they part, now they come
together again; now the silent clouds threateningly merge into one mass
that, lightning-bearing and black, steals from the east upon the azure
vault. Already is the speechlessness of the woods disturbed by the
encroachment of the wind; no longer is the nightly flowing of the river
peaceful and dark. In broad ripples flash upon it the far-stretched
groves of shadows,--just as a sail, trembling in the air and almost
furled by the sailor, when suddenly a storm arises, and rolling the
noisy floods, seizes the pinion of his barque and stretches it above the
whirling waters.
Darkness has drowned the heavens; rain pours down; the storm agitates
and stirs the waters and the woods.--it lightens, thunders, and raves.
Wondrous moments! When from end to end, through the stormy clouds a
furrow of toothed lightning gleams in purple fire,--then everything is
seen: the chain of the distant mountains and the variegated pictures of
the windings of the Sorót, the lakes, the villages, the banks, and the
vales. Suddenly the darkness grows more grim and murky, the thunder
claps are louder; noisier, thicker, faster are the torrents of the rain.
But to-morrow the luminary of the day will, in luxurious silence, appear
in the light-blue heaven, and will re-establish a golden morning in the
storm-washed country.
TO THE POET
When inspiration has grown one with you, and your breast heaves mightily
with it, and you perceive your consecration and know your God-blest
path, when all, by which the heavenly gift is patent upon earth, is
ready for your deeds,--the light and heat of mighty thought and the
fire-breathing word,--then go into the world, that it may hear the
prophet! But in the world be holy and majestic, kiss not the sugared
lips of vice, beg not, take no reward,--whether the morning star invite
you with its glow, or terrible be the tyranny of fate: be innocent as
the dove, and bold and brave as the eagle!
And harmonious and soothing sounds will rise from your thundering
strings; in these sounds the slave will forget his torments, and King
Saul will listen to them, and you will bloom in life of high solemnity,
and for ever bright will be your open brow and piercing, flaming eye!
But if you are filled with the earthly desire of praise and
pleasure,--gather not rich gifts upon the altar of your God: He will
ungraciously look upon you, will not accept your cunning offerings;
smoke and thunder will disperse them,--and the priest will recede,
trembling with fear and shame.
Mikhaíl Yúrevich Lérmontov. (1814-1841.)
Lérmontov was born in the house of his grandmother, who brought him up
after the early death of his mother. Up to his tenth year he was
educated at home, in the country, studying several modern languages
and Greek. In 1826 he was taken to Moscow and placed in the Boarding
School for Young Noblemen, which was connected with the university. He
here distinguished himself as a student, but was much ridiculed by his
mates on account of his awkward manner and unattractive exterior. This
led him to withdraw from their company as much as possible, and to
frequent solitary spots. He read a great deal, but his favourite
author was Byron, whose life he set up as an example for himself to
follow. Having been expelled from the university for some scandalous
pranks, he entered in 1832 the School of the Guard Cadets at St
Petersburg, where he soon gained the reputation of a clever poet of
immodest verses. After graduation he passed his life in a whirl of
society pleasures at St. Petersburg and at Tsárskoe Seló. Púshkin’s
death, in 1837, roused Lérmontov from his inactivity. The poem, _On
the Death of the Poet_, which he then wrote, and which was spread over
Russia in a large number of manuscript copies, caused a sensation in
higher society, and he was banished for it to the Caucasus, but was
soon returned to the army. Lérmontov was at that time little known to
the public at large, though his poem “Borodinó” had just appeared, as
he kept himself aloof from the literary coteries. He first attracted
universal attention by his _Ballad of the Tsar Iván Vasílevich_, after
which followed a long series of his famous poems, and the prose novel
_The Hero of our Time_. In 1840 he was again banished to the Caucasus
for having fought a duel, but the next year he was killed in another
duel with a fellow-officer.
Lérmontov had displayed unusual talent before the age of twenty, and
before his twenty-eighth year he had achieved a reputation that is
hardly second to Púshkin’s. His fervid imagination led him to add to
his fashionable Byronian mood a charm entirely his own: his melancholy
and pessimism, which find their most beautiful expression in his long
poem, _The Demon_, do not leave the reader disheartened and
disappointed, but rather invite to pensive meditation. His poetry
gives the impression of having no relation to active life; it seems as
though the questions of the day did not exist for him. This is partly
due to the fact that he stood aside from the literary circles, but
more especially because he wrote at a time when the application of art
to life had not yet become the watchword of Russian poets. He
therefore characterises the transition period from Púshkin to Gógol.
He was entirely under the influence of Byron, without, however,
inheriting his political and humanitarian ideals.
There are several translations of his prose tale: _Sketches of Russian
Life in the Caucasus_, by a Russe (a literary forgery), London, 1853;
_A Hero of Our Times_, now first translated into English, London,
1854; _The Hero of Our Days_, from the Russian, by T. Pulszky (in The
Parlour Library), London, [1854]; _A Hero of Our Time_, from the
Russian, by R. I. Lipmann, London, [1886]; Russian Reader:
_Lermontoff’s Modern Hero_, with English translation and biographical
sketch, by Ivan Nestor-Schnurmann, Cambridge University Press, 1899.
_Taman_ (part of _Hero of Our Time_) was also given in Railway and
General Automatic Library, London, [1892]. _The Demon_ has been
translated twice: _The Demon_, translated from the Russian, by A.
Condie Stephen, London, 1875, 2nd ed., 1881, 3rd ed., 1886; _The Demon
of Lermontoff_, translated from the Russian, by Francis Storr, London,
1894. The _Mtsyri_ has appeared under the name, _The Circassian Boy_,
translated through the German, by S. S. Conant, Boston, 1875.
The following separate poems have been translated into English: _The
Gifts of Terek_, by T. B. Shaw, in Edinburgh Blackwood Magazine, vol.
liv.; _Rememberest thou the day_, by W. R. Alger, in _The Poetry of
the Orient_, Boston, 1865; _Gifts of the Terek_, _The Cup of Life_,
_Cossack Cradlesong_, _The Prisoner_, by A. E. Staley, in Blackwood’s
Magazine, vol. cxxxvi.; _God’s Presence in Nature_, _Clouds_, _The Cup
of Life_, _The Bark_, _The Dispute_, _Circassian Song_, _Cossack
Cradlesong_, _The Prisoner_, _The Deserter_, _The Dream_, _Stanzas_,
_The Nun’s Song_, _Prayer_, _The Branch from Palestine_, by C. T.
Wilson, in _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887; _The Angel_, _The Voyage_,
_Prayer_, _Thanksgiving_, _On Death of Púshkin_, _Dream_, _Clouds_,
_How Weary_, _Alone I pass along the lonely road_, _Men and Waves_,
_The Queen of the Sea_, _The Prophet_, _When my native land_, _To
----_, _The Dagger_, _Not for Thee_, _Dispute_, _“Why?” Moscow_, in J.
Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_, London, 1891; in Free Russia have
appeared: by G. R. Tomson, _The Poet_, in vol. i., No. 6; by Mary
Grace Walker, _The Death of Pushkin_, in vol. x., Nos. 6 and 7, _My
Neighbour_, in vol. xi., No. 1, _My Country_, ib., No. 4; by Mrs. Ch.
Sidgwick, _At a Ball_, ib., No. 2; in The Anglo-Russian Literary
Society have been published: by F. P. Marchant, _The Angel_, _The
Prayer_, in No. 11, _The Branch from Palestine_, and _Gratitude_, in
No. 16, _Cossack Cradlesong_, in No. 25, _Ballad of the Tsar Ivan
Vasilevich_, in No. 26; by Miss G. Shepherd, _Oh, he was born for
happiness, for hope_, in No. 13; by A. C. Coolidge, _Alone I wander
out along the road_ and _The Angel_, in No. 14 (given before in
Harvard Monthly Magazine, 1895); by Mrs. Heath, _The Sail_, in No. 19;
by J. Pollen, _The Gifts of the Terek_, in No. 20; by Anna Laura K.
Bezant, _On life’s road I wander, lone and dreaming_, in No. 21; in
the Library of the World’s Best Literature is given _The Cloud_, by N.
H. Dole, and are reprinted _The Prisoner_ and _The Cup of Life_, by
Staley, and _The Angel_, by Pollen.
FROM “A HERO OF OUR TIMES”
MAKSÍM MAKSÍMYCH
Leaving Maksím Maksímych, I rode at a rapid gait through the Térek and
Daryál cañons, breakfasted in Kazbék, drank tea at Lára, and hastened
away for supper to Vladikavkáz.
I stopped at the inn where all passengers stop----I was told that I
should have to pass three days longer here, since the chance-team had
not yet returned from Ekaterinográd and, consequently, could not start
on its return journey.
The first day I passed lonely. Early in the morning of the next day a
vehicle drove into the yard. “Ah, Maksím Maksímych!” We met like old
friends. I offered him my room; he accepted it without ceremony, even
clapped me on my shoulder and curved his mouth in the manner of a smile.
What a queer fellow!
Maksím Maksímych was well versed in the culinary art: he could broil a
pheasant remarkably well, superbly seasoned it with cucumber sauce, and
I must confess that without him I should have been obliged to live on
dry food. A bottle of Kakhetine wine helped us to forget the modest
number of our dishes, of which there was but one, and lighting our pipes
we seated ourselves,--I at the window, he at the stove, for it was a
damp and cold day. We were silent.
We sat for a long time. A few vehicles with dirty Armenians drove into
the yard of the inn, and behind them--an empty carriage.
“Thank the Lord!” said Maksím Maksímych, approaching the window. “What a
fine carriage!” he added----“Who can it be? Let us go and find out.”
We went into the corridor. A lackey was dragging, with the help of the
driver, some portmanteaus into a room.
“Listen, friend,” the staff-captain asked him, “to whom does this
magnificent carriage belong?----Eh? A fine carriage!”
The lackey did not turn around, but muttered something as he opened the
portmanteau. Maksím Maksímych grew angry. He touched the rude fellow on
the shoulder and said to him: “I ’m talking to you, my dear fellow.”
“To whom the carriage belongs? To my master?”
“And who is your master?”
“Pechórin.”
“You don’t say? Pechórin? Oh, good God! Did n’t he serve in the
Caucasus?” exclaimed Maksím Maksímych, pulling me by the sleeve. Joy
glistened in his eyes.
“I think he did, but I have not been long with him.”
“Well, that ’s it! Grigóri Aleksándrovich? That ’s his name? Your master
and I have been friends,” he added, giving the lackey a friendly slap on
the shoulder that made him stagger.
“Excuse me, sir, you are in my way,” he said, knitting his brow.
“How funny you are, friend! You must know that your master and I have
been bosom friends and have lived together. But what has become of him?”
The servant announced that Pechórin would remain for supper and the
night at Colonel N.’s.
“Won’t he come here in the evening?” said Maksím Maksímych. “Or, are n’t
you going down to see him for something or other? If you are, tell him
that Maksím Maksímych is here,--he knows,--I ’ll give you eight
grívenniks[7] for vódka.”[8]
The lackey made a scornful grimace when he heard of such a modest
promise, but he assured Maksím Maksímych that he would carry out his
order.
“He ’ll come right away!” Maksím Maksímych said to me, with a radiant
look. “I ’ll wait for him outside the gate. Oh, what a pity I don’t know
Colonel N.”
Maksím Maksímych sat down on a bench in front of the gate, and I went to
my room.
An hour later an invalid brought a boiling samovár and a teapot. “Maksím
Maksímych, don’t you want any tea?” I cried to him through the window.
“Thank you, I don’t feel like it.”
“Do take a glass! Look, it is already late and cold.”
“No, thank you.”
“Well, as you please!” I began to drink tea myself; some ten minutes
later the old fellow came into the room.
“You are right: it will be better to take some tea. I have been waiting,
but his man went to him long ago; evidently something has detained him.”
He hurriedly sipped a cup, declined a second, and went again outside the
gate, somewhat disturbed. It was clear that Pechórin’s negligence
annoyed the old fellow, especially since he had only lately been telling
me of his friendship, and since he was so sure an hour ago that Pechórin
would hurry to see him, the moment he heard his name.
It was late and dark when I again opened the window and began to call
Maksím Maksímych, saying that it was time to go to bed. He muttered
something through his teeth. I repeated the invitation, but he did not
answer.
I lay down on the divan and covered myself with my cloak. I left a
candle on the oven-bench and fell asleep. I should have slept quietly if
Maksím Maksímych had not entered very late into the room and awakened
me. He threw down his pipe on the table, began to pace over the room and
to poke the fire; finally he lay down, but he coughed, spit, and tossed
for a long time.
“Are bugs biting you?” I asked him.
“Yes, bugs,” he answered, drawing a deep sigh.
I awoke very early the next morning, but Maksím Maksímych had
anticipated me. I found him in front of the gate, seated on the bench.
“I must go down to the Commandant,” he said, “so please send for me if
Pechórin should come.”
I promised I would. He ran away as if his limbs had regained their
youthful vigour and flexibility.
Less than ten minutes had passed when at the end of the square appeared
the man we were waiting for. He was walking with Colonel N., who brought
him to the inn, bade him good-bye, and returned to the fort. I
immediately sent the invalid for Maksím Maksímych.
The horses were already hitched. The bells now and then tinkled over the
yoke, and the lackey had already twice approached Pechórin with the
report that all was ready, but Maksím Maksímych had not yet made his
appearance. Fortunately Pechórin was buried in meditation and was
looking at the blue crags of the Caucasus, and did not seem to be in a
hurry to leave. I went up to him.
“If you will wait a little,” I said, “you will have the pleasure of
meeting an old friend of yours.”
“Oh, that ’s so!” he answered rapidly. “I was told so yesterday; but
where is he?”
I turned to the square and saw Maksím Maksímych running at full speed. A
few minutes later he was near us; he could hardly breathe; perspiration
ran down his face; wet tufts of grey hair stood out from under his cap
and stuck to his brow; his knees were trembling. He wanted to throw
himself on Pechórin’s neck, but the latter quite coldly, though with a
pleasant smile, stretched out his hand to him. The staff-captain was
stupefied for a moment, but then eagerly grasped his hand with both of
his: he could not speak.
“How glad I am, dear Maksím Maksímych! Well, how are you getting along?”
Pechórin asked.
“And thou? and you?” the old man muttered with tears in his eyes. “How
many years--how many days--but where are you going to?”
“I am going to Persia, and still farther.”
“Right away? Do stay here a while, my friend! Are we really going to
separate at once? We have not seen each other for so long.”
“I must, Maksím Maksímych,” was his answer.
“O Lord! Where are you hurrying so? I should like to tell you so much,
and ask you so much! Well, have you retired? What have you been doing?”
“Having ennui!” Pechórin answered, smiling.
“Do you remember our life in the fort? ’T was a fine country for
hunting! You were a passionate hunter! And Béla?”
Pechórin grew slightly pale and turned away.
“Yes, I remember!” he said, yawning forcedly.
Maksím Maksímych began to entreat him to stay an hour or two with him.
“We shall have a fine dinner,” he said. “I have two pheasants, and the
Kakhetine wine is excellent,--of course not what it is in Georgia, yet
of the best sort. We shall talk. You will tell me of your life in St.
Petersburg. Well, what do you say?”
“Really, I have nothing to tell, dear Maksím Maksímych. Now good-bye, I
must go, I am in a hurry. Thank you for remembering me,” he added,
taking his hand.
The old man knit his eyebrows. He was sad and angry, though he tried to
hide it.
“Forget? No, I have forgotten nothing. Well, God be with you! I hoped to
meet you differently.”
“Well, well!” said Pechórin, embracing him in a friendly manner. “Am I
not the same? What ’s to be done? Each one has his road laid out. God
knows if we shall ever meet again!”
He was already in the carriage when he said this, and the driver was
arranging the reins.
“Wait, wait!” Maksím Maksímych suddenly shouted, catching hold of the
door of the carriage: “I almost forgot. I have your papers, Grigóri
Aleksándrovich, and I have been dragging them along with me. I had hoped
to find you in Georgia, but by the will of God we have met here. What
shall I do with them?”
“Whatever you please!” answered Pechórin. “Good-bye!”
“So you are making for Persia? When will you be back?” Maksím Maksímych
cried after him.
The vehicle was far off, but Pechórin made a sign with his hand which
could be interpreted as follows: “Hardly! And there is no reason why I
should!”
The tinkling of the bell and the rattling of the wheels on the flinty
road had long died away, but the poor old man was still standing in the
same place, buried in meditation.
“Yes,” he said at last, trying to assume an indifferent look, though
from time to time a tear of indignation glittered on his eyelashes. “We
have been friends, but what does friendship nowadays mean? What interest
can he have in me? I am not rich, have no title, and am not a match for
him as to age. What a swell he has become since he has been in St.
Petersburg. What a carriage! How much luggage! And what a proud lackey!”
These words were pronounced with an ironical smile. “Tell me,” he
continued, turning towards me: “What do you think about it? What demon
carries him now to Persia? It ’s ridiculous, upon my word, ridiculous! I
always knew that he was a flighty man upon whom one could not rely. But,
really, it ’s a pity he should end so badly,--it can’t be otherwise! I
always said it does no good to forget old friends!”
Here he turned away to conceal his agitation, and began to pace up and
down the yard, near his vehicle, as if to examine the wheels, while his
eyes kept filling with tears.
“Maksím Maksímych,” I said, walking over to him, “what kind of papers
are those that Pechórin has left with you?”
“God knows! Some memoirs.”
“What will you do with them?”
“What! I ’ll have them made into cartridges.”
“You had better give them to me.”
He looked at me in wonderment, muttered something through his teeth, and
began to rummage through his portmanteau. Then he took out a notebook,
threw it contemptuously on the floor, then another, a third, a tenth,
and they had all the same fate: there was something childish in his
anger; I was amused, and I pitied him.
“Here they are,” said he. “I congratulate you with your find.”
“And I may do with them what I wish?”
“As far as I am concerned, you may print them in newspapers. What do I
care? What am I to him? Neither a friend, nor a relative. It is true, we
have lived a long time together under the same roof. But there are many
others with whom I have lived!”
I grabbed the books and carried them quickly away, fearing that the
captain might regret his action. They announced to us soon after that
the carriage would start in an hour. I gave orders to pack. The captain
entered the room as I was putting on my cap. He was evidently not
getting ready to travel; he had a kind of a forced, cold look.
“Are n’t you going, Maksím Maksímych?”
“No, sir.”
“How so?”
“I have not yet seen the Commandant, and I have to hand over to him some
Crown goods.”
“But you have been with him?”
“Yes, I have, that ’s so,” he said, hesitatingly, “but he was not at
home, and I did not wait for his return.”
I understood him--the poor old man had, probably for the first time in
his life, neglected his official duties for private reasons, as they say
in chancery language, and how he was rewarded for it!
“Very sorry, Maksím Maksímych, that we are to part before our time.”
“We uncouth old men can’t keep up with you! You are a worldly, proud
young set. As long as you are under Circassian bullets, you are
passable, but when you meet one of our kind later, you are ashamed to
stretch out your hand to him.
“I have not deserved these reproaches, Maksím Maksímych.”
“I should not have mentioned it, if I had not been egged on. As for you,
I wish you good luck and a happy journey.”
We parted quite dryly. Good Maksím Maksímych became a stubborn,
quarrelsome staff-captain! Why? Because Pechórin, in his
absent-mindedness or for some other reason, stretched out his hand to
him, when he was ready to fall around his neck. It is sad to see a young
man lose all his best hopes and dreams, when the rose-coloured glass is
taken away from him through which he had been looking at human acts and
feelings, though there is hope that he will exchange his old illusions
for new ones, not less transitory, but also not less sweet. But what is
to take their place in a man of Maksím Maksímych’s years? The heart
involuntarily becomes hardened, and the soul closes up.
I travelled by myself.
[7] A grívennik is equal to ten kopeks, or about five cents.
[8] Native brandy.
FROM “THE DEMON”
I
A sombre fiend, a spirit banished,
Was flying o’er this world of sin;
While thoughts of better days, now vanished,
Upon his brain were crowding in--
Those days, when in the home of light
Midst cherubim he too was bright.
The time was when the comet fleeting,
Its soft caressing smile of greeting
To interchange with him was proud;
When, through the never-ending cloud,
He followed curiously the trace
Of where the caravans had moved
Of stars, whose paths were lost in space,--
When he believed and when he loved.
A happy first-born of creation,
He knew no thought of fear or doubt:
Existence then was his, without
The weight of ages of damnation----
And much and much,--but no, not all,
Had he the strength that dared recall.
II
Through earthly deserts long he sped,
Without a refuge or an aim.
The ages after ages fled;
Like minute after minute, came
Recurring ceaselessly the same.
In this mean world o’er which he lorded
No ill he sowed, relief afforded;
For nowhere he resistance met
That stood against the snares he set.
Sin did but weariness beget.
III
Now, o’er the Caucasus, on high,
Was Eden’s outcast flying by.
Kazbék, beneath, with diamond light
Of everlasting snow shines blinding;
And deep below, a streak of night,
Like some dark cleft, the snake’s delight,
In endless curves the Daryál’s winding
And Térek like a lion springing,
With bristling mane, in fury roars;
The beast of prey, the bird, high winding
Its flight in azure where it soars,
Have heard the cry his waves give forth,
And little golden clouds there are
From southern lands,--ay, from afar,
To follow on the journey north.
The cliffs in serried masses seem,
Replete with some mysterious dream,
To bend their heads above the stream,
And watch his waters as they gleam
Perched on the rock, the castle tower,
That stands on Caucasus to wait,
A giant guardian at the gate,
Seems sternly through the mist to glower,
And wild and wonderful about
Was all God’s world; but that proud sprite
With but a glance of scorn looked out
On all his God had wrought in might;
His lofty brow did naught express
Except the void of nothingness.
IV
Before him now another scene
Had living beauties to display,
Where Georgian valleys robed in green,
Stretched outward like a carpet, lay.
One of earth’s happy fertile nooks
Where column-like the ruins stand;
O’er stones of every hue, the brooks
Run downward babbling through the land.
The nightingales among the roses
Sing tuneful love in accents fond
To graceful mates that ne’er respond;
The plane-tree’s spreading shade discloses
The spot where ivy thick reposes;
Here gorges where from burning day
The timid deer lie hid away;
And light, and life, and leaves that rustle,
And voices’ hundred-sounding bustle,
And plants whose thousand breaths compete,
And fierce voluptuous noonday heat;
And nights whose aromatic dew
Distils a freshness ever new;
And stars that are as bright as eyes,
As glances of the Georgian maid.
But nature in all charm arrayed
To no new throb of life gave rise
Within that outlaw’s sterile breast,
Save for a hostile, cold unrest;
And that which here he contemplated,
He looked with scorn upon and hated.
--Transl. by A. C. Coolidge (unpublished).
DISPUTE
Once, before a tribal meeting
Of the mountain throng,
Kazbék-hill with Shat-the-mountain
Wrangled loud and long.
“Have a care, Kazbék, my brother,”
Shat, the grey-haired, spoke;
“Not for naught hath human cunning
Bent thee to the yoke.
Man will build his smoky cabins
On thy hillside steep;
Up thy valley’s deep recesses
Ringing axe will creep;
Iron pick will tear a pathway
To thy stony heart,
Delving yellow gold and copper
For the human mart.
Caravans, e’en now, are wending
O’er thy stately heights,
Where the mists and kingly eagles
Wheeled alone their flights.
Men are crafty; what though trying
Proved the first ascent!--
Many-peopled, mark, and mighty
Is the Orient.”
“Nay, I do not dread the Orient,”
Kazbék, answering, jeers;
“There mankind has spent in slumber
Just nine hundred years.
Look, where ’neath the shade of plane-trees
Sleepy Georgians gape,
Spilling o’er their broidered clothing
Foam of luscious grape!
See, ’mid wreaths of pipe-smoke, lying
On his flowered divan,
By the sparkling pearly fountain
Dozeth Teheran!
Lo! around Jerusalem’s city,
Burned by God’s command
Motionless, in voiceless stillness,
Deathlike, lies the land.
“Farther off, to shade a stranger,
Yellow Nilus laves,
Glowing in the glare of noonday,
Steps of royal graves.
Bedouins forget their sorties
For brocaded tents,
While they count the stars and sing of
Ancestral events.
All that there the vision greeteth
Sleeps in prized repose;
No! the East will ne’er subdue me!
Feeble are such foes!”
“Do not boast thyself so early,”
Answered ancient Shat;
“In the North, look! ’mid the vapours,
Something rises! What?”
Secretly the mighty Kazbék
At this warning shook,
And, in trouble, towards the nor’ward
Cast a hurried look.
As he looks in perturbation,
Filled with anxious care,
He beholds a strange commotion,
Hears a tumult there.
Lo! from Ural to the Danube,
To the mighty stream,
Tossing, sparkling in the sunlight,
Moving regiments gleam;
Glancing wave the white-plumed helmets
Like the prairie grass,
While, ’mid clouds of dust careering,
Flashing Uhlans pass.
Crowded close in serried phalanx
War battalions come;
In the van they bear the standards,
Thunders loud the drum;
Streaming forth like molten copper
Batteries, rumbling, bound;
Smoking just before the battle
Torches flare around;
Skilled in toils of stormy warfare,
Heading the advance,
See! a grey-haired general guides them,
Threat’ning in his glance.
Onwards move the mighty regiments
With a torrent’s roar;
Terrible, like gathering storm-clouds,
East, due east, they pour.
Then, oppressed with dire forebodings,
Filled with gloomy dreams,
Strove Kazbék to count the foemen,
Failed to count their streams.
Glancing on his tribal mountains,
Sadly gloomed the hill;
Drew across his brows the mistcap,
And for aye was still.
--From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_.
───────
Alone I wander out along the road;
The stony way gleams through the mist afar;
The night is calm; the waste lists to its God;
And star is speaking unto star.
In heaven wondrousness and grandeur reign;
The earth sleeps in a glow of soft blue sky.
Then why do I feel such distress, such pain?
What have I to await? or what regret have I?
Already I await no more from life;
And nothing in the past do I regret.
I seek for freedom, and an end to strife;
I only wish to sleep and to forget.
But not as in the tomb’s too chilly rest,
My slumber through the ages I conceive
With all Life’s vigour throbbing in my breast--
That with my breathing it should gently heave,--
That all the day and night, to soothe my ear,
A tender voice to me of love should sing;
And I must have, in green for ever near,
A dark oak bending o’er me, murmuring.
--Transl. by A. C. Coolidge, in The Harvard Monthly, 1895, and in
The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 14.
THE SAIL
A solitary sail is gleaming,
While, through the haze of th’ azure, she,
In chase of chance’s fortune seeming,
Far from a cherished home may be.
The waves leap up,--the wind is blowing,
The mast is bending low and creaks,--
Alas! from happiness not going,
It is not happiness she seeks.
Beneath her prow blue floods are swelling,
Above her glides the sunlit fleece,
But still she prays for storms, rebelling--
As if in storms there can be peace.
--Transl. by Mrs. Heath, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society,
No. 19.
THE PRAYER
In life’s hard, trying moments,
With sorrow in my breast,
I breathe a prayer most wonderful,
Which ever brings me rest.
There is a power of blessedness
In those sweet words enshrined,
Thought cannot grasp their sacred charm
That calms the anxious mind.
Doubt stays no more, the soul is free,
Her burden rolls away,
Her faith renewed, tears bring relief,
When this sweet prayer I pray.
--Transl. by F. P. Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary
Society, No. 11.
THE BRANCH OF PALESTINE
Branch of Palestine, the story
Of thy birth and beauty, say
Of what hill and vale the glory
Were thy leaves and blossoms gay?
Thee, by Jordan’s limpid fountains,
Did the Eastern sunbeam bless?
Thee, on Lebanon’s great mountains,
Did the night-wind’s love caress?
Salem’s sons, with sorrow smitten,
As they twined thy leaves with care--
Sang they songs, in old times written?
Breathed they then a gentle prayer?
Is thy parent-palm yet living
Where the summer sun beats down,
Still to desert-travellers giving
Shade beneath her broad-leafed crown?
Or, thy faded palm-tree sighing,
Withered at thy parting, grieves,
While the thirsty dust is lying
Thickly on her yellow leaves?
Whose the reverent hand that bore thee
From thy country to this place?
Wept he often, bending o’er thee?
Have those hot tears left their trace?
Was he of God’s host the flower,
Shone his cheek with rapture bright,
Worthy heaven, like thee, each hour
In his God’s and comrades’ sight?
Branch from Salem, guard unsleeping
Of the golden ikon fair,
Watch before the holiest keeping,
Thou art weighed with silent care!
Beauteous twilight, lamp-beams o’er thee;
Full of peace and comfort, shine;
Ark and cross repose before thee,
Symbols of a love divine!
--Transl. by F. P. Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary
Society, No. 16.
───────
Remember’st thou the day when we--
Late was the hour--were forced to part?
The night-gun boomed athwart the sea;
In painful silence beat each heart;
The lovely day found cloudy close;
A heavy mist the landscape palled;
And seemed it, when that shot arose,
An echo from the ocean called.
Alone I wander by the flood;
And when a gun booms in its might,
I think in pain how we once stood
Together on that parting night.
And as the mournful echoes roll,
Muffled, along the fluid walls,
From out the caverns of my soul
Death answeringly calls and calls.
--From W. R. Alger’s _The Poetry of the Orient_, 1865.
AT A BALL
How oft, surrounded by the motley crowd,
Mid whirling dance, and din of music loud,
I sink my senses in a dream,--
When phrased convention, polished fiction, fly
And all the men and women pass me by,--
Like masks their faces seem.
When my cold hands are met with colder still,
And callous city beauties touch me chill,
Bold but effete, with hollow cheer,
Then, to appearance wrapped in light and glare,
I cherish in my heart a fancy fair,--
Echoes a bygone year.
Forsaking all around, in heart and mind
I fly--a free, free bird--to things behind,
And see myself a child once more,
In places old and dear. The house o’erhead,--
The garden path I see,--the ruined shed,--
The pond well-weeded o’er:
And see across the pond the village lie,
From clustered roof the smoke is rising high,
The mists from meadows far away!
I enter a dark alley: evening red
Blinks through the shrubs, and underneath my tread
The dead leaves rustling stray.
Then a strange longing holds me,--yearning sore
For love,--my fancy’s love and nothing more:--
She was a dream and yet my love!
Her sky-blue eyes could flash with silver flame,
Her rosy smile with kindling sweetness came,
Like sunrise through the grove.
Thus, potent master of my fairyland,
Alone I pass my hours, and understand
The spell of those sweet days to save,
Unharmed, unstained by passion or by doubt,
Like some fair flowery islet, lying out
Where leaps the wild sea wave.
But suddenly a jar renews my sense,--
The happy, happy dream is frighted hence,
That gentle, uninvited guest.
And wild I long my steel-cold lines to fling
Upon the startled crowd, to smite and sting,
With anger from my breast.
--Transl. by Mrs. Charlotte Sidgwick, in Free Russia, vol. xi.,
No. 2.
DREAM
’Neath midday heat, in Dagestána’s Vale,
With leaden ball in breast I lifeless lay;
From a deep wound smoke rose upon the gale,
And drop by drop my life-blood ebbed away.
Alone I lay upon the sandy slopes;
The craggy cliffs around me crowded steep;
The sunlight burned upon their yellow tops,
And burned on me who slept no mortal sleep.
A dream I dreamed, and saw in sparkling bowers
An evening feast in my home,--far away,--
Where young and lovely women, crowned with flowers,
Conversed of me in accents light and gay.
But, in their happy talk not joining, one
Sat far apart, and plunged in thought she seemed;
And oh! the mystery knows God alone,--
This was the dream her young soul sadly dreamed.
She saw in vision Dagestána’s Vale,
Where on the slope a well-known body lay;
From the black wound smoke rose upon the gale,
And in cold streams the life-blood ebbed away.
--From John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_.
Aleksyéy Vasílevich Koltsóv. (1808-1842.)
Koltsóv was the son of a burgher of Vorónezh who dealt in hides and
tallow. He received very little training in his coarse and ignorant
family, and at ten years of age went to a school just long enough to
learn to read and write. After that his father put him to work at his
business, but the boy found enough time to read some Russian fairy
tales and a few novels. Dmítriev’s poems, which fell into his hands,
gave him a taste for poetry, and a “Russian Prosody,” given him by a
local book-dealer, for the first time taught him the harmony of verse
and its technical structure. He at once began to compose poems in
imitation of such as he could procure, while a seminarist whose
acquaintance he cultivated corrected and guided his first attempts. In
1831 Koltsóv went to Moscow where he was introduced to the critic
Byelínski, who at once recognised the unusual talent of the untutored
bard. After a second visit, in 1836, the two became staunch friends,
and under Byelínski’s influence Koltsóv produced the best of his
poems. He soon returned to the sordid surroundings of his native
place, and died shortly after of consumption. The striking
picturesqueness of his verse, which is based on the inimitable,
untranslatable diction of the peasant, has given rise to two
diametrically opposed views: according to the one, he is the popular
bard _par excellence_; according to the other, he has only made
artistic use of the peasant’s language for productions that are
eminently refined and, therefore, removed from the understanding of
the masses.
In English translation have appeared: _Season of Love_, _A Prayer_,
_Two Lives_, _First Love_, in _A Russian Poet_, by W. R. S. Ralston,
in Fortnightly Review, vol. vi., 1866; _The Abundant Harvest_, _The
Mower_, _The Peasant Musing_, in _Russian Idylls_, by W. R. S.
Ralston, in Contemporary Review, vol. xxiii., 1874; _The Ploughman’s
Song_, _The Peasant’s Misgivings_, _The Orphan_, _Love’s Invitation_,
in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, 1887; _The Forest_, _Betrayed by a
Bride_, by I. H. Harrison, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No.
16, and _A Winter Wooing_, _The Mower_, by Mrs. Rosa Newmarch, _ib._,
No. 30.
FIRST LOVE
Her whom I loved in early years
So well, so tenderly,--who filled
With a first passion’s hopes and fears
A heart which time has not yet stilled,--
Can I forget her? Day by day I strive
Her well-loved image from my mind to drive;
To find new dreams my old dreams to efface,
And let another love my early love replace.
But all in vain. I strive and strive, and yet
Whate’er I do I never can forget.
When in the silent hours of night I sleep,
She comes in dreams; once more I see her stand
Beside my couch; once more her accents steep
My suffering soul in bliss; once more her hand
In mine so gently, mournfully, she lays,
While her dark eyes on mine in sadness gaze.
Speed, kindly Time, my thoughts from her to sever,
Or set me free with her to live for ever.
--Transl. by W. R. S. Ralston, in Fortnightly Review, 1866 (vol.
vi.).
THE ABUNDANT HARVEST
I
With a rosy flame the dawn burns on high, but the fog still broods over
the face of the earth;
Till the day has caught the fire of the sun, and rolled up the mists
higher than the tops of the hills,
And has pressed them into a black cloud. The black cloud has begun to
knit its brows,--
Has begun to knit its brows, as if reflecting, as though musing upon
the place of its birth,
As though remembering how the wild winds will drive it before them
across the face of the wide world.
Then it arms itself with the hurricane and the thunderbolt, with the
lightning’s flash and the bow of the cloud.
It has taken up arms, and flown abroad, and struck its stroke, and
poured itself forth
In a torrent of tears, in a flood of rain, over the copious bosom of
the earth.
II
Now from heaven’s heights the dear sun looks down. The earth a
plenteous draught has drunk.
On their corn-fields and gardens, and meadows green, the rustic folk
cannot gaze enough.
For the grace of God these rustic folk have waited long with trembling
and prayer.
Together with the spring there have come to life the secret thoughts of
their quiet minds.
Thought the first: To pour into sacks the grain in the bins, and to set
their carts in order.
Thought the second: Forth from the village by night to drive their line
of carts.
Thought the third----When of this they thought, to God the Lord arose
the prayers.
With early dawn have they gone afield. There in handfuls heaped each
scatters the grain, furrows the soil with the ploughshare’s blade,
or rips it across with the harrow’s tooth.
III
I will go and gaze with gladdened eye at what God has sent to men for
their toil.
Above my waist the large-grained rye rises, then dreamily bends well
nigh to the ground.
On every side the corn, guest sent by God, greets with a smile the
joyful day.
Over it the breeze floats lustrously, streaming this way and that a
wave of gold.
Now in whole families the peasants commence their harvest, cutting
close to the roots the stalks of the lofty rye.
Into close-packed mows are the sheaves collected; from the lines of
carts sounds music all the night long.
On every side do the stacks erect their heads in the barnyards,--taking
up much room, like nobles of yore in their robes of state.
IV
The dear sun sees that the harvest is done; so colder gleam his last
autumnal rays.
But with warm light glows the peasant’s taper--burning before the
pictured form of the Mother of God.
--Transl. by W. R. S. Ralston, in The Contemporary Review, 1874
(vol. xxiii.).
THE FOREST
IN MEMORY OF PÚSHKIN
What does the silent wood
Dream of so pensively?
What is the sorrow that
Rides in its mystery?
Why dost thou, Knightly One,
Under its charm’s spell,
Head undefended
Hold ’gainst the wind-stroke,--
Standing there shamedly
Letting the storm-clouds
As they pass momently
Burst on thee savagely?
Thy helmet of green leaves
Bound fastly together
Is whirled from thee far off
And scattered to dust;
Thy boughs, as a mantle falls,
Lie all around thee;
Thou standest ashamedly,
Forced to submit thee.
Where hath vanished now
Speech that was mighty,
Strength that was prouder than
All a king’s bravery?
A night there hath been for thee,
A calm night within which
Thou heardest the nightingale’s
Deluge of song--
A day there hath been for thee
Triumphant, forgetless--
A friend and an enemy
Sought thy cool freshness;
’T was late in the evening,
And loud blew the storm-blast
Of him that was speaking
Unto thy detractor.
His wrath drove the clouds off
That round thee had gathered,
His love clung around thee
Like wind-gusts, but warmer.
Thou said’st to the other,
With voice that changed loudly,
“Go, fall back beyond me!
Go, leave me in peace!”
That voice of his dizzied,
As tone on tone sounded;
Thy very depths trembled,
Their stoutest trunks reeling.
Then, startled from silence,
To life thou awakest;
A whistling of tempest
Re-echoed throughout thee;
’T is the cry of the wood-sprite,
A witch’s note shrilling,
Until the loud rumble
Is borne away seaward.
Where now all thy glory
Of verdure and leaf?
Thou ’st put on dark clothing
Of rain-mist and grief;
Wild art thou and silent,
But, when the wind quickens,
Thy plaint sadly peals out
For him lost untimely.
And so, thou dark forest,
Life-long hast thou harassed
The Knightly, the Noble,
To combat for thee.
Against thee prevailed not
Those stronger than thou art;
Life’s autumn in him, though,
Seemed cruelly short.
The woods know in dreamland
That forces of evil
Their malice did spend on
Who least had deserved it:
From off Knightly shoulders
A head had been struck--
Not by a hero’s hand,
But by a recreant.
--Transl. by I. H. Harrison, in The Anglo-Russian Literary
Society, No. 16.
BETRAYED BY A BRIDE
Warm the summer sun in heaven,
But for me no heat is given!
Frozen is the very heart’s blood,
Through the bride that played me false.
Grief’s black pall hath fallen o’er me,
On my sorrow-bowed-down head:
Mortal anguish tears my soul, and
From this body would it break.
Neighbours asked have I to help me;
No man gave me aught but laughter;
Then, to the grave of either parent--
Neither heard the voice I called with.
Light then changed for me to darkness,
Senseless on the ground I lay,
Dull the night, until a tempest
Roused me from the tombstone cold.
Raged the storm--a horse I saddled,
Bent on riding--God knows where--
Life is heartless toil to laugh at,
Man’s fate evil alone to share.
--Transl. by I. H. Harrison, in The Anglo-Russian Literary
Society, No. 16.
THE MOWER
I can’t understand it,
I can’t make it out--
Yet why I can’t see
How it all came about?
In an unlucky day,
In an ill hour, alack,
I came into this world
With no shirt to my back!
Yet my grand-dad’s broad shoulders
Are mine, as you see;
And my mother’s deep chest;
In my cheeks flowing free
Burns the blood of my sire,
Like milk set afire
By dawn’s crimson light;
And my locks lie in clusters
As black as the night.
Yet, whatever I do--
Oh, it never goes right!
In an unlucky day,
In an ill hour, alack,
I came into this world
With no shirt to my back!
There’s darling Grunyúsha,
The Stárosta’s daughter--
Well, all through the spring
Did I patiently court her;
But he, the old churl,
Was finely put out!
To whom has he planned
That he ’ll marry the girl?
Oh, I can’t understand
How it all came about.
Does he think, the old ass,
I was after his money?
Let him stick to his brass
If he give me my honey--
’T is for her that I pine.
Oh, her face is bright
And as rosy as sunrise,
Her rounded cheeks mellow,
And the flash of her eyes
Might drive a young fellow
Clean out of his wits.
Ah, ’t was only last night
That she wept so for me,
But her tears were in vain.
For her dad said downright
That it never could be.
Shall I never again
From my sorrow be free?
Come, I ’ll buy a new scythe,
And I ’ll sharpen it well,
Aye, its edge I will whet,
Ere I bid a farewell
To my own native place.
Nay, Grúnya, don’t fret,
Don’t worry, dear maid.
Though keen is the blade,
I ’ll not cut myself down;
Good-bye, little town.
You, hard parent, good-bye!
To a land far away
Will the young mower hie.
Down the Don’s bank I ’ll stray
Till I reach the quayside,
Where the suburbs stand gay
And the Steppe stretches wide.
There, wherever I glance,
The tall plume-grass is blown.
O Steppe, thou, my own,
How thy fertile expanse
Lies green on each hand,
So free and so vast,
Till it reaches at last
To the Black Sea’s far strand!
I have come as thy guest,
But I come not alone,
I have brought thee a friend,
One, my closest and best.
See, my sharp scythe is here,
As myself he is dear.
Oh, from end to far end,
What a joy it will be
To wander with him
O’er the Steppe’s grassy sea!
Swish, work away shoulders;
Swing arms to and fro,
While cool on my face
The light southern winds blow,
Refreshing and rippling
The Steppe’s endless space.
Now, scythe, hum a song,
Flash in circles thy blade;
How the long grass-ranks fall
As the steel moves along!
O ye poor blossoms all,
Your heads are low-laid!
Ye must dry up and fade
In the straight swathes of grass
As my young heart, alas,
Withers up for a maid,--
And I languish for Grúnya!
I ’ll rake up the hay
Till so high my stack stands
That the wife of the Cossack
Must pay with both hands.
I shall sew up my pocket,
My treasure to guard,
Then, home I ’ll betake me,
To the Stárosta say:
“Though tears could not make thee
Give Grúnya away,
Thou art not so hard
But my good pieces may.”
--Transl. by Mrs. Rosa Newmarch, in The Anglo-Russian Literary
Society, No. 30.
Nikoláy Vasílevich Gógol (--Yanóvski). (1809-1852.)
Gógol was born in the Government of Poltáva, in Little-Russia, and was
educated at home up to his twelfth year. His father was a landed
proprietor of more than ordinary culture, who had a private theatre at
his estate, on which were played Little-Russian comedies, some his
own. His grandfather had held an important post with the Zaporóg
Cossacks, and being an excellent story-teller, had imbued his grandson
with the spirit of the recent Cossack past. At the Gymnasium, Gógol
evinced little interest in his studies, but devoted himself with
enthusiasm to drawing and to the theatre which he himself created for
his schoolmates. He even then composed some comedies and edited a
manuscript periodical. After graduation he went to St. Petersburg in
search of some occupation, but found himself unfit for any work. He
also tried literature, and in 1829 appeared his romantic tale _Hans
Küchelgarten_. It was so severely criticised that Gógol bought up the
whole edition and committed it to the flames. He busied himself with
the history of Little-Russia, and shortly after he wrote his beautiful
_Evenings on the Farm near the Dikánka_, in which the idealisation of
the past and of his native country is already tempered by realism.
These _Evenings_ at once made him known, and he became intimate with
Zhukóvski and Púshkin. He dreamed of devoting himself to history, but
prolonged labour was distasteful to him, and he did not go beyond
collecting material for his Little-Russian epic, _Tarás Búlba_. He
really obtained a professorship at the university, but his
professional career was a failure. Instead, he brought out a series of
admirable stories, such as _Old-fashioned Landed Proprietors_, _The
Nose_, _The Phaeton_, _The Mantle_, and his comedies, of which the
_Revizór_ has remained a classic in the Russian repertoire. He was now
completely launched into naturalism, and was at once recognized by the
critic Byelínski (see p. 205), as forming a new school in literature.
A few years later he gave to the world the first part of the _Dead
Souls_, in which he reached the highest point of his artistic
development. The plot of the story is simple: an unscrupulous
ex-official travels about the country to buy up peasants, that in
reality are dead but before the Government are still accounted alive
until the following census and are subject to taxes; by nominally
transferring them to his own estate, he is able to mortgage them at
the rate of three hundred roubles for each “soul.” This plot served
Gógol as a thread on which to string his different types of people. In
1836 Gógol went abroad, and slowly succumbed to a species of
melancholia, which showed itself in an increased tendency to
mysticism. This led him to burn the greater part of what was to form
the second book of the _Dead Souls_, and to practice
self-chastisement.
In English translation have appeared: _The Portrait_, in Blackwood’s
Edinburgh Magazine and in Living Age, 1847; _Home Life in Russia_, by
a Russian Noble (a literary forgery), 2 vols., London, 1854; _Cossack
Tales_, translated by G. Tolstoy, London, [1860]; _St. John’s Eve and
Other Stories_, translated by Miss I. F. Hapgood, New York, [1886],
and London, 1887; _Taras Bulba_, by I. F. Hapgood, New York, [1886],
(Lovell’s Library, No. 1016), and London, 1887; _Tchitchikoff’s
Journey; or, Dead Souls_, by I. F. Hapgood, New York, [1886], and
London, 1887; also _Dead Souls_, 1887 and 1888, and _Taras Bulba_,
1887 and 1888, published by Vizetelly; _A May Evening_, in
Cosmopolitan, vol. iii.; _The Cloak_, in Short Stories, 1891, and
(with _The Portrait_ and _Old-fashioned Farmers_) in _Wayward Dosia_,
by Gréville, Chicago, 1891; _Inspector General, or, Revizór_,
translated by A. A. Sykes, London, 1892, 1893; _The Inspector_, a
comedy, translated by T. Hart Davies, London, 1892; _On Christmas
Eve_, translated by F. Volkhovsky, in Free Russia, vol. x., No. 12;
_Marriage_ and _A Madman’s Diary_, in the _Humour of Russia_, by E. L.
Voynich, London and New York, 1895; extracts from _The Inspector_, and
from _Mirgorod_, translated by I. F. Hapgood, are given in the Library
of the World’s Best Literature.
THE DNIEPER
Wonderful is the Dnieper in quiet weather when softly and smoothly he
hurries his full waters by forests and hills. He neither rustles, nor
thunders. You look at him, and you do not know whether his majestic
breadth is in motion, or not, and it looks as if he were all cast of
glass and as if his blue, mirrored path, measureless in breadth and
endless in length, meandered and wound over the wide green world. The
hot sun then joyfully looks down from his height and plunges his beams
in the coolness of the glassy waters, and the woods of the shore are
brightly reflected therein. Green-locked ones! They crowd together with
the field flowers to the brink, and bending over look into the water,
and do not get tired looking at their bright image, and smile to it, and
greet it, shaking their branches. They dare not look into the middle of
the Dnieper; none but the sun and the blue sky look upon it; rarely a
bird flies to the middle of the Dnieper. Proud one! There is not a river
in the world like him.
Wonderful, too, is the Dnieper in a warm summer night, when all is
asleep,--man, and beast, and bird,--and God alone majestically surveys
heaven and earth and majestically waves His garment. From the garment
fall stars; stars burn and gleam over the world, and all together are
reflected in the Dnieper. The Dnieper holds them all in his murky lap;
not one of them will escape him, unless it be dimmed in heaven. The
black forest, weighted down by sleeping ravens, and anciently disrupted
mountains hang down over him and attempt to cover him with their long
shadows. In vain! There is nothing in the world that could cover the
Dnieper. Ever blue, he spreads his gentle floods in the night as in the
day, and may be seen as far as the human eye can see. Proceeding in his
voluptuous course and hugging the shore in the coolness of the night, he
leaves behind him a silvery streak which flashes like the blade of a
Damascus sabre, but the blue one again falls asleep. Even then the
Dnieper is wonderful, and there is no river like him in the whole world!
But when the grey clouds pass like mountains over the sky, the black
forest shakes to its roots, the oaks crack, and the lightnings, piercing
through the clouds, at once illumine the whole world,--then the Dnieper
is terrible! The mounds of water thunder as they beat against the
mountains, and with a splash and groan they rush back, and weep, and
lose themselves in the distance. Thus grieves an old Cossack mother as
she leads her son to the army: in his best spirits and boldly he rides
forth on his black charger, his arms akimbo, his cap poised jauntily;
but she sobs and runs after him, seizes him by his stirrup, catches his
bridle, and wrings her hands, and is dissolved in bitter tears.
THE REVIZÓR
ACT I. (_room in the Burgomaster’s house_). SCENE 1. THE BURGOMASTER,
CURATOR OF CHARITABLE INSTITUTIONS, INSPECTOR OF SCHOOLS, JUDGE,
CAPTAIN OF POLICE, DOCTOR, TWO SERGEANTS OF POLICE
_Burgomaster._ Gentlemen, I have called you together to give you a very
disagreeable piece of news: a Revizór is coming.
_Judge._ What, a Revizór?
_Curator._ What, a Revizór?
_Burgomaster._ A Revizór from St. Petersburg, incognito, and with secret
instructions, if you please.
_Judge._ I declare!
_Curator._ Things have been too easy with us, so there it is.
_Inspector._ Good gracious! With secret instructions!
_Burgomaster._ I really had a presentiment of it: last night I did
nothing but dream of two extraordinary rats. I tell you, I never saw the
like of them; they were black and of unusual size. They came, nosed
around, and went away. I ’ll read to you the letter I received from
Andréy Ivánovich Chmýkhov whom you, Artémi Filíppovich (Curator), know.
This is what he writes: “Dear friend, and benefactor” (_mutters in a
whisper as he runs down the lines_)----“and to let you know.” Ah, here
it is: “among other things I hasten to inform you that an official is
here with instructions to inspect the whole Government, and especially
our county (_significantly raises his finger_). I have learned this from
most trustworthy people, although he passes himself for a private
individual. Knowing that, like all people, you have some peccadilloes,
for you are a clever fellow and don’t let things slip through your
fingers----” (_Stops._) Oh, that ’s private----“I advise you to take the
proper precaution, for he is likely to come any hour, if he has not
arrived yet and is not living somewhere incognito----Yesterday”----Oh,
these are family matters: “sister Anna Kirílovna has been visiting us
with her husband; Iván Kirílovich has grown very stout, and is all the
time playing the fiddle----” and so forth, and so forth. So that ’s the
way it stands!
_Judge._ But that ’s an unusual affair. There must be something back of
it.
_Inspector._ But what is that all for, Antón Antónovich (Burgomaster)?
Why is the Revizór coming to us?
_Burgomaster_ (_sighing_). Why! It ’s evidently our fate! (_Sighing
again._) Thanks to the Lord, they have come down on other towns before
this; but now our turn has come.
_Judge._ I think, Antón Antónovich, that there is a delicate reason of a
political nature behind all this. It ’s simply this: Russia, you see, is
about to wage war, and the Minister has sent a special official to find
out whether there is not any treason here.
_Burgomaster._ What a guess! And you call yourself a clever man! Treason
in a county town! Does it lie on the border, eh? Why, you ’d have to
gallop three years from here to get to another country.
_Judge._ No, let me tell you. You don’t----no, you don’t----The
government is pretty shrewd about things: never mind its being far away,
but the government is on the lookout.
_Burgomaster._ Let it be or not, but I have given you warning,
gentlemen, so take notice! I, for my part, have taken some precautions,
and I advise you to do the same. Especially you, Artémi Filíppovich! No
doubt, the official will first of all want to inspect the charitable
institutions under your charge, and so you had better give everything a
decent appearance. Let there be clean caps, and don’t let the patients
look like blacksmiths, as they generally appear.
_Curator._ Oh, that is not hard! I see no reason for not putting on
clean caps.
_Burgomaster._ Yes. And let there also be written over every bed in
Latin, or some other language----that ’s your business, Christian
Ivánovich,--the name of every illness: when any of them got ill, what
day of the month----It is not right for your patients to smoke such
strong tobacco that one has to sneeze upon entering. Yes, it also would
be better if there were not so many of them, for it will be ascribed to
improper care or the physician’s lack of skill.
_Curator._ Oh, Christian Ivánovich and I have taken our measures in
regard to the doctoring: the nearer to nature, the better; we do not
employ expensive medicaments. A man is a simple affair: if he is to die,
he ’ll die anyway; and if he is to get well, he ’ll get well anyway.
Besides, it would not be an easy matter for Christian Ivánovich to carry
on a conversation with them, he does not know a word of Russian.
(_Christian Ivánovich emits a sound, somewhere between_ ee _and_ eh.)
_Burgomaster._ I should advise you also, Ammós Fédorovich, to direct
your attention to the court-house. In the antechamber, where the people
wait with their petitions, your janitors have been raising geese with
their goslings that continually get between one’s legs. I admit it is
praiseworthy to raise your own geese, and there is no reason why
janitors should not rear them; only, don’t you know, it is n’t quite the
thing to raise them in that place----I had in mind to tell you that
before, but I somehow forgot.
_Judge._ Well, I ’ll order them to be taken to the kitchen this very
day. Can’t you come and take dinner with me?
_Burgomaster._ Then again, it ’s wrong for all kinds of rags to be hung
out in the court-room to get dry, and on the case with the documents
lies a hunting-whip. I know you are fond of the chase; but it would be
better for the time being to take it away, and as soon as the Revizór
has gone, I don’t see why you can’t hang it back there again. Then again
your assessor----, of course, he is a clever fellow; but there is an
odour about him as if he had just come out of a still,--that won’t do
either. I had intended to tell you about that long ago, but something or
other drew my attention away from it. There are means against it, if it
is, indeed, as he says, a natural odour with him: you might recommend
him to eat garlic, onions, or something else. In this case Christian
Ivánovich might help him with some of his medicaments.
(_Christian Ivánovich emits the same sound as before._)
_Judge._ No, you can’t drive it out of him: he says that his nurse once
hurt him when he was a baby, and ever since he has had a brandy smell
about him.
_Burgomaster._ I only mention it to you. As to the internal disposition
and what Andréy Ivánovich in his letter calls “peccadilloes,” I can’t
say anything. Strange to say, there is not a man who has not some sin to
answer for. God Himself has arranged it so, and the followers of
Voltaire are in vain preaching against it.
_Judge._ What do you call peccadilloes, Antón Antónovich? There are
peccadilloes and peccadilloes. I tell everybody openly that I take
bribes, but what bribes? Greyhound pups. That ’s an entirely different
matter.
_Burgomaster._ Pups or anything else, it ’s bribes all the same.
_Judge._ Not at all, Antón Antónovich. But suppose a man’s fur-coat
costs five hundred roubles, and his wife’s shawl----
_Burgomaster._ What of it if your bribes consist in greyhound pups? But
you don’t believe in God; you never go to church. I am, at least, firm
in my faith and attend church regularly every Sunday; whereas you----Oh,
I know you: when you begin to talk about the creation of the world, my
hair simply stands on end.
_Judge._ I have reasoned it out all by myself, with my own intellect.
_Burgomaster._ Well, in this case much intelligence is worse than none
at all. However, I only mentioned the County Court. To tell the truth,
there is not much likelihood of anybody’s looking in there: it ’s an
enviable place, and God Himself protects it. But you, Lúka Lukích, as
Inspector of Schools, must take especial care of the teachers. They are,
of course, knowing people, and have been educated in all kinds of
colleges, but they have very strange ways about them, no doubt
inseparable from their learned profession. One of them, for
example,--the one with the fat face, I can’t think of his name,--can’t
get along, upon standing on the platform, without making a grimace like
this (_imitates him_), then he begins to claw his beard under the
necktie. Of course, it does not matter much if he makes such a face to a
pupil of his, and maybe that is necessary, for I am not a judge of that;
but judge yourself,--if he should do so to a visitor, it might have a
bad effect: the Revizór, or someone else, might take it to himself. The
devil knows what that might lead to.
_Inspector._ I declare I don’t know what to do. I have talked several
times to him about it. Only a few days ago, when the Marshal of the
Nobility entered his classroom, he made a face I had never seen before.
He did it from the goodness of his heart, but I had a reprimand for
instilling radical thoughts into the youths.
_Burgomaster._ I must also draw your attention to the teacher of
history. He is a learned man, that ’s evident, and is chockful of
knowledge, only he lectures with such fervour that he forgets himself. I
once listened to his lecture: as long as he was talking of Assyrians and
Babylonians, things went tolerably well; but when he got to Alexander
the Great, I can’t tell you what became of him. I thought there was a
fire, upon my word! He ran down from the platform and with all his might
and main smashed a chair against the floor! I ’ll admit Alexander the
Great was a hero, but why break chairs over him? There is only a loss to
the Crown from it.
_Inspector._ Yes, he is fiery! I have remarked so to him several times.
He says: “I don’t care, I ’ll not spare my life for the sake of
science!”
_Burgomaster._ Yes, such is the inexplicable law of fate: a clever
fellow is either a drunkard, or he makes faces so that you have to carry
out the holy images.
_Inspector._ God preserve us from being schoolmasters. You are afraid of
everything! Everybody meddles with you, everybody wants to show that he,
too, is a clever fellow.
_Burgomaster._ All that could pass,--but the accursed incognito! He ’ll
suddenly poke in his nose: “Ah, there you are, my darling! Who,” will he
say, “is the judge here?”--“Lyápkin-Tyápkin.”--“Fetch me in
Lyápkin-Tyápkin! And who is the Curator of the Charitable
Institutions?”--“Zemlyaníka.”--“Fetch in Zemlyaníka!” That ’s what is
bad.
SCENE 2. THE SAME AND THE POSTMASTER
_Postmaster._ Tell me, gentlemen, what is it,--what official is coming?
_Burgomaster._ Have n’t you heard?
_Postmaster._ I have heard from Petr Ivánovich Bobchínski. He was just
in my office.
_Burgomaster._ Well, what do you think of it?
_Postmaster._ What I think? Why, there will be a war with Turkey.
_Judge._ That ’s it! I thought so myself.
_Burgomaster._ Well, you ’re both wrong.
_Postmaster._ I insist, with Turkey. It ’s all the Frenchmen’s doing.
_Burgomaster._ Nonsense, war with Turkey! It ’s we who ’ll catch it, not
the Turks. So much is certain; I have a letter.
_Postmaster._ If that ’s the case, there will be no war with Turkey.
_Burgomaster._ Well, how do you feel about that, Iván Kuzmích?
_Postmaster._ How I feel? How do you feel, Antón Antónovich?
_Burgomaster._ How I feel? Not exactly afraid, but just a little shaky.
The shopkeepers and townspeople worry me. They say I ’ve laid it on to
them; but I declare that if I have taken here and there a thing from
one, I have done so without any ill-feeling. I even think (_takes his
arm and leads him aside_), I even think there might have been some
denunciation against me. For why should the Revizór come to us? Listen,
Iván Kuzmích, could n’t you, for our common good, you know, just open a
little and read every outgoing and incoming letter in your postoffice,
to see whether they do not contain some denunciation or simply some
report? If there is nothing in them, you may seal the letters again, or
for that, you can return the letters unsealed.
_Postmaster._ I know, I know. Don’t teach me; I have been doing it, not
exactly as a precaution, but chiefly from curiosity,--I ’m awfully fond
of knowing what ’s up in the world. I assure you, it makes most
interesting reading! Now and then there is a letter that I read with
real pleasure,--there are all kinds of incidents described in them, and
they are so edifying,--better than in the Moscow Gazette!
_Burgomaster._ Well, tell me, have n’t you found out from them something
about an official from St. Petersburg?
_Postmaster._ No, there ’s nothing in them about anybody from St.
Petersburg, but a great deal about Kostromá and Sarátov people. Really,
what a pity you do not read letters! There are fine passages in them.
For example, there was a lieutenant who in a letter to his friend
described a ball in a most playful----yes, very fine: “My life, my dear
friend,” says he, “flows in the empyrean: there are plenty of young
ladies, music is playing, the flag is flying----” he described it with
great, very great feeling. I purposely kept the letter. Do you want me
to read it to you?
_Burgomaster._ Well, this is not the right time for it. So do me the
favour, Iván Kuzmích: if, by chance, there should be a complaint or
denunciation, keep it back without any further ado.
_Postmaster._ With the greatest pleasure.
_Judge._ Look out, you ’ll get into trouble yet.
_Postmaster._ Good gracious!
_Burgomaster._ Not at all, not at all. It would be a different matter,
if you were to make a public affair out of it, but this is, so to say, a
family matter.
_Judge._ Yes, there ’s mischief brewing! I was really coming to tell
you, Antón Antónovich, that I wanted to present to you a puppy, a sister
to that dog that you know. You have heard that Chéptovich and
Varkhovínski have started a litigation; so I ’m in clover: I hunt hares
now on one estate, now on the other.
_Burgomaster._ Lord, what do I care for your hares now! That accursed
incognito is running through my head! I am only waiting for the door to
open, and----
SCENE 3. THE SAME, BOBCHÍNSKI AND DOBCHÍNSKI ENTER, OUT OF BREATH
_Bobchínski._ An extraordinary occurrence!
_Dobchínski._ An unexpected occurrence!
_All._ What, what is it?
_Dobchínski._ An unforeseen affair: we come to the inn----
_Bobchínski_ (_interrupting him_). Petr Ivánovich and I come to the
inn----
_Dobchínski_ (_interrupting_). Eh, permit me, Petr Ivánovich, let me
tell it.
_Bobchínski._ Oh no, let me----let me, let me----you are n’t a good
speaker----
_Dobchínski._ And you ’ll get confused and you ’ll forget something.
_Bobchínski._ No, I won’t, upon my word, I won’t. Don’t bother me, let
me tell it, don’t bother me! Please, gentlemen, do tell Petr Ivánovich
not to bother me.
_Burgomaster._ For the Lord’s sake, do tell, what is it? My heart is in
my mouth. Sit down, gentlemen! Take seats! Petr Ivánovich, here is a
chair for you. (_All sit around the two Petr Ivánovichs._) Well, what is
it, what?
_Bobchínski._ Allow me, allow me; I ’ll tell it all in order. No sooner
had I the pleasure of leaving you, just as you were disturbed by the
letter you had received, yes, I at once ran----now, please don’t
interrupt me, Petr Ivánovich! I know it all, truly, I do. So, you see, I
ran to Koróbkin’s house. As I did not find him at home I turned in to
Rastákovski’s, and as I did not find him at home I stopped at Iván
Kuzmích’s house to inform him the piece of news you had received, and as
I was going away from there, I fell in with Petr Ivánovich.
_Dobchínski_ (_interrupting_). Near the booth where they sell cakes.
_Bobchínski._ Near the booth where they sell cakes. Yes, and as I fell
in with Petr Ivánovich, I said to him: “Have you heard the news that
Antón Antónovich has received in a trustworthy letter?” But Petr
Ivánovich had already heard that from your housekeeper Avdótya, who had
been sent for something or other to Filíp Ivánovich Pochechúev.
_Dobchínski_ (_interrupting_). For a keg of French brandy.
_Bobchínski_ (_warding him off with his hand_). For a keg of French
brandy. So Petr Ivánovich and I came to Pochechúev----Now, Petr
Ivánovich, please don’t----don’t interrupt me, please, don’t interrupt
me!----We went to Pochechúev, and on the way Petr Ivánovich said to me:
“Let ’s go,” says he, “to the inn. My stomach,--I have eaten nothing
since morning,--why, there ’s a rumbling in my stomach----” Yes, Petr
Ivánovich’s stomach---- “In the inn,” says he, “they have received some
fresh salmon, so we ’ll have a bite.” No sooner had we entered into the
inn, when a young man----
_Dobchínski_ (_interrupting_). Of good appearance and in citizen’s
clothes----
_Bobchínski._ Of good appearance and in citizen’s clothes, was walking
up and down the room, such an expression in his
face----physiognomy----carriage, and up here (_moves his hand around his
forehead_) very distinguished. I had a kind of presentiment, and I said
to Petr Ivánovich: “There ’s something up here.” Yes. And Petr Ivánovich
beckoned to the innkeeper and called him up,--’t was innkeeper
Vlas,--his wife had a baby three weeks ago, such a lively creature, he
’ll be an innkeeper like his father. So, calling up Vlas, Petr Ivánovich
asked him in a whisper: “Who,” says he, “is that young fellow?” to which
Vlas answered: “That,” says he----oh, don’t interrupt me, Petr
Ivánovich, I beg you, don’t interrupt me, you won’t be able to tell the
story, upon my word you won’t: you lisp, you have a whistling tooth in
your mouth, I know---- “That young man,” says he, “is an official,” yes,
“he ’s from St. Petersburg, and his name is,” says he, “Iván
Aleksándrovich Khlestakóv, sir, and he is on his way,” says he, “to the
Government of Sarátov, and,” says he, “he is acting very strangely: he
has been here nearly two weeks, he never leaves the inn, takes
everything on credit, and won’t pay a kopek.” When he told me that, a
light dawned upon me at once. “Oho!” said I to Petr Ivánovich----
_Dobchínski._ No, Petr Ivánovich, it was I who said “Oho!”
_Bobchínski._ First you said it, and then I. “Oho!” said we. “What
reason could he have to stay here, when his road is to the Government of
Sarátov?” Yes, sir, he is that very official.
_Burgomaster._ Who--what official?
_Bobchínski._ The official about whom you have received that
information,--the Revizór.
_Burgomaster_ (_terrified_). Don’t say that, the Lord be with you! it is
n’t he.
_Dobchínski._ He! He does n’t pay his bill, and he does n’t leave. Who
else could it be, if not he? His passport is made out for Sarátov.
_Bobchínski._ He--he--upon my word, he----He is so observing: he watches
everything. He saw Petr Ivánovich and me eating salmon,--mainly because
of, on account of, Petr Ivánovich’s stomach----yes, he even looked into
our plates. I just trembled with fear.
_Burgomaster._ Lord, have mercy upon us sinners! Where is he staying
there?
_Dobchínski._ Number five, under the staircase.
_Bobchínski._ The same room that the transient officers had a fight in
last year.
_Burgomaster._ Has he been here long?
_Dobchínski._ Some two weeks. He arrived on the day of St. Basil the
Egyptian.
_Burgomaster._ Two weeks! (_Aside._) Friends and saints, help me! Within
these two weeks the sergeant’s wife has been flogged! The prisoners have
received no provision. Drunkenness and dirt in the streets! Disgraceful!
Shameful! (_Tears his hair._)
_Curator._ Antón Antónovich, had we not better make an official call in
the inn?
_Judge._ No, no! First send the Mayor, the clergy, the merchants. It
says in the book “John the Mason”----
_Burgomaster._ No, no! Let me attend to it! I ’ve had hard cases before
in life, and I not only got out of them hale, but even received thanks.
Maybe God will succour me now too. (_Turning to Bobchínski._) You say,
he is a young man?
_Bobchínski._ Yes, about twenty-three or -four at most.
_Burgomaster._ So much the better: it is easier to get at the bottom of
a young fellow. It is a tough job, if you have an old devil to deal
with; but a young fellow is all on the surface. You, gentlemen, make
your proper arrangements, and I ’ll go myself, or maybe with Petr
Ivánovich, privately, just for a walk to see that travellers are
properly treated. Here, Svistunóv!
_Svistunóv._ At your service, sir!
_Burgomaster._ Fetch me at once the captain--or, no. I need you. Tell
somebody there to fetch me the captain as quickly as possible, and come
back here. (_The sergeant runs away._)
_Curator._ Let us go, let us go, Ammós Fédorovich. There might, indeed,
happen some misfortune.
_Judge._ What are you afraid of? Put clean nightcaps on the patients,
and your deed is done.
_Curator._ Bosh, nightcaps! The patients are supposed to get oat gruel,
and instead there is such a smell of cabbage in the corridors that you
are compelled to hold your nose.
_Judge._ I am at ease on that score. Indeed, who would think of looking
into the County Court? And if he should take it into his head to glance
at some papers, he ’ll wish he had not done it. It ’s now fifteen years
I have been occupying the bench, but when I look into a brief, I give it
up in despair. Solomon himself could not make out what is right and what
wrong.
(_The Judge, Curator of Charitable Institutions, Inspector of Schools,
and Postmaster go out, and in the door bump against the returning
sergeant._)
FROM “DEAD SOULS”
MRS. KORÓBOCHKA
“It ’s a fine village you have there, motherkin. How many souls are
there?”
“There are in it nigh upon eighty souls, my friend,” said the
proprietress. “The trouble is, times are bad: now, last year there was
such a failure of crops; God save us from another!”
“Yet your peasants are rather a fine lot, and their cabins look as if
they were in good trim. Oh, please tell me your name! I am so
distracted, having arrived here in night time----”
“Koróbochka, college secretary.”
“Much obliged. And your Christian name and patronymic?”
“Nastásya Petróvna.”
“Nastásya Petróvna? It ’s a fine name--Nastásya Petróvna. I have an
aunt, my mother’s sister, whose name is Nastásya Petróvna.”
“And what is your name?” asked the proprietress: “you are the
tax-collector, if I am not mistaken?”
“No, motherkin!” answered Chíchikov smiling: “not the tax-collector. I
am travelling on my own account.”
“Oh, then you are buying things! What a pity that I sold the honey so
cheap to the merchants! I am sure, my friend, you would have bought it
of me.”
“No, it is n’t honey I am after.”
“What then? Hemp? Why, I have n’t much of it just now,--something like
half a pud.”
“No, motherkin, it ’s different goods I want. Tell me, have any of your
peasants died?”
“Oh, my friend, eighteen of them?” said the old woman with a sigh. “And
it ’s all good workers that have died. There have been born some since,
it is true, but what good is there in them? It ’s all small fry. When
the tax-collector comes around, I ’ll have to pay for the dead ones all
the same as if they were living. Last week my blacksmith was burned; he
was such a fine blacksmith, and he was a locksmith too.”
“Have you had a fire, motherkin?”
“God has spared me that misfortune. A fire would have been worse; no, he
burnt himself, my friend. There was something inside of him that caught
fire: he had been drinking hard. A blue flame came out of him, and he
burnt all up, and grew black like coal. Oh, he was such a fine
blacksmith! Now I can’t drive out at all, for there is nobody here to
shoe the horses.”
“God’s will is in everything, motherkin!” said Chíchikov heaving a sigh:
“we must say nothing against the wisdom of God---- Turn them over to me,
Nastásya Petróvna!”
“Whom, my friend?”
“I mean all those that have died.”
“How do you mean, to turn them over?”
“Why, just turn them over, or, if you wish, sell them to me. I ’ll pay
you for them.”
“How do you mean that? I declare, I can’t see through it. Do you intend
to dig them up?”
Chíchikov perceived that she was far from the mark, and it became
necessary to explain to her the business. He told her in a few words
that the transfer or sale would be only on paper, and that the souls
would be mentioned as if they were still alive.
“What do you want them for?” said the old woman, as she stared at him.
“That ’s my affair.”
“But they are dead!”
“Well, who said they were alive? That ’s where your loss comes in,
because they are dead. You have been paying for them all this time, and
I will deliver you from trouble and expenses. You understand? I will not
only deliver you, but I ’ll pay you fifteen roubles to boot. Well, is it
clear now?”
“I confess, I don’t know,” said the proprietress deliberately: “I have
never before sold dead souls.”
“I guess not! It would, indeed, have been an odd thing if you had. Or do
you, really, think there is some use in them?”
“No, I don’t think exactly that. What use can there be in them? There ’s
no use in them. The thing that troubles me is, they are dead.”
“I see she is a thick-skulled old woman,” Chíchikov thought. “Listen,
motherkin! Just consider well: you are ruining yourself when you pay
taxes for them as if they were alive----”
“Oh, my friend, don’t mention it!” the proprietress interrupted him. “It
is n’t three weeks yet that I had to pay one hundred and fifty, and to
grease the tax-collector besides.”
“That ’s it, motherkin! Now, just consider that you will not have to
grease the tax-collector again, for it is I who am going to pay for
them, and not you. I take upon myself all obligations. I ’ll even have
the deed made out at my expense, do you understand that?”
The old woman became pensive. She saw that the business was indeed
advantageous, but so new and unusual that she was growing suspicious,
lest the purchaser should get the better of her, especially since God
knows where he came from, and that, too, at night time.
“Well, motherkin, is it a bargain?” said Chíchikov.
“Really, my friend, I have never yet had a chance to sell corpses. As
for living ones, it ’s only three years hence that I sold some to
Protopópov,--two girls at one hundred roubles apiece,--and he ’s been
thankful for them: they have turned out to be excellent workers, and
they can make even napkins.”
“But we are not concerned about living ones,--God be with them! I am
asking for dead ones.”
“Really, I am afraid, to begin with, I might sell them at a sacrifice.
Maybe, my friend, you are cheating me. Who knows but what they are worth
more?”
“Listen, motherkin,--what a funny woman you are! What worth can they
have? Think of it: they are dust. Do you understand?--they are nothing
but dust. Take any useless, worthless thing, say, a common rag, and that
has some value: it may be, at least, bought in the paper factory, but
what are these good for? Say yourself, what are they good for?”
“I ’ll agree, you are right. They are good for nothing. The only thing
that bothers me is that they are dead.”
“Confound that club-headed woman!” said Chíchikov to himself, as he was
beginning to lose patience. “Go and straighten things out with her! She
has made me sweat, accursed woman!” He took out a handkerchief from his
pocket and began to wipe off the perspiration that really had come out
on his forehead. In reality, Chíchikov had no special reason to lose his
patience: there is many an honourable man, a man of state, who is a fine
reproduction of Mrs. Koróbochka. Let him take some notion, and you will
not get him away from it; all your proofs in the world, even if they are
as clear as daylight, will rebound from him, like a rubber ball from the
wall. Having wiped off his perspiration, Chíchikov resolved to try her
from another side, hoping to get her at last on the right path.
“Motherkin, either you do not want to understand my words, or you are
just talking, to be a-talking. I am offering you money, fifteen roubles
in assignats,--do you understand? It is money I am offering you. You
can’t pick it up in the street. Now, confess, what did you sell your
honey at?”
“Twelve roubles a pud.”
“You are sinning a little, motherkin. You did not sell it at twelve.”
“Upon my word, I did.”
“Well, you see, but it is honey! You have been gathering it probably for
a year, with care, and trouble, and worry; you had to be about, to
starve the bees, to feed them a whole winter in the cellar--while dead
souls are not of this world. Here you have to undergo no trouble: it was
God’s will that they should leave this world and cause your estate a
loss. There you received a compensation for your labour and your care at
the rate of twelve roubles, and here you receive for nothing, and not
twelve, but fifteen, and not in silver, but in blue assignats.”
Chíchikov did not doubt that after such convincing proof the old woman
would finally capitulate.
“Really,” answered the proprietress, “I am such an inexperienced widow!
I think I had better wait a little: maybe some other purchasers will
come, and I ’ll get used to the price.”
“Shame, shame, motherkin! Simply, shame! Now, just think what you are
saying! Who is going to buy them? Well, what use can anybody make of
them?”
“Maybe they are some good on the estate----” retorted the old woman and
did not finish her speech. She opened her mouth and looked at him almost
with terror, wondering what he would say to that.
“Dead souls on the estate! What a guess you have made! What do you want
to do with them? Use them for scarecrows to drive the sparrows out of
your garden?”
“The power of the cross be with us! What awful things you say!” muttered
the woman, making the sign of the cross.
“Well, where else would you make use of them? Besides, I leave their
bones and graves to you: the transfer is only on paper. Well, what do
you say? Give me, at least, some kind of an answer.”
The old woman fell again to musing.
“What are you thinking about, Nastásya Petróvna?”
“Really, I can’t quite make it out; let me better sell you some hemp.”
“What do I want with the hemp? I declare, I am asking you for something
else, and you foist hemp upon me! The hemp is all right, I ’ll come
another time, and will take your hemp. How is it now, Nastásya
Petróvna?”
“Upon my word, it ’s such a strange article, and so odd.”
Here Chíchikov’s patience burst all bounds; in his anger he banged a
chair against the floor, and sent her to the devil.
The proprietress was dreadfully put out by the devil. “Oh, don’t mention
him, God be with him!” she cried out, while growing pale: “Only night
before last the accursed one appeared to me in my dream. I had
carelessly been laying cards to tell fortune in the evening after
prayers, so the Lord evidently sent him to me to punish me. Oh, he
looked so horrible: his horns were longer than a bull’s.”
“I wonder how it is they don’t come to you by the dozen. Out of mere
Christian charity I wanted to help a poor widow that is suffering
want---- Go to perdition with your whole village!----”
“What curses you are uttering!” said the woman, looking at him in
terror.
“I can’t find the right words with you! Really, not to use any bad
words, you are just like a watchdog that is lying on the hay: he does
n’t himself eat any hay, and won’t let anybody else eat it. I had
intended to buy all kinds of produce from you, for I am also a
government contractor----” He lied here, just in passing, without any
further thought, but it came in unexpectedly at the right moment.
Government contracts made a strong impression on Nastásya Petróvna; at
least she spoke in an almost imploring voice:
“But what has made you so dreadfully angry? If I had known before that
you are such an excitable man, I would n’t have contradicted you at
all.”
“There is really no cause for anger! The whole business is n’t worth an
empty eggshell, and why should I get angry over it?”
“Well, if you want them, I ’ll let you have them for fifteen in
assignats! Only, my friend, let me tell you about your government
contracts: if you have any occasion to buy up rye, or buckwheat, or
grit, or meat,--please don’t forget me.”
“No, motherkin, I won’t,” he said while wiping off the sweat that came
down his face in three streaks. He asked her whether she did not have in
town some attorney or friend whom she could give the power to make out
the deed and everything else that was necessary.
“Certainly! The son of Father Cyril, the protopope, serves in the
court-house,” said Koróbochka.
Chíchikov asked her to write a letter to him granting him power of
attorney, and, to save more trouble, began to compose the letter
himself.
“It would be nice,” Koróbochka said to herself in the meanwhile, “if he
bought flour and beef of me for the government. I must get on the good
side of him: there is some dough left from last night, so I ’ll go and
tell Fetínya to make some griddle cakes.”
Vissarión Grigórevich Byelínski. (1811-1848.)
Few persons have exerted such a far-reaching influence upon Russian
literature as the critic Byelínski, and a whole generation of writers
was cast in the mould of his æsthetic views. Byelínski was the son of
a district physician in the Government of Pénza. His home life was
exceedingly unhappy and his childhood was neglected; from the district
school, to which he was sent up to his fourteenth year, he was
transferred to the Gymnasium and later to the Moscow University, but
he was a very poor student and careless about his person. In Moscow he
joined the Schelling circle of the students and with them devoted his
time to the study of literature, especially of Shakspere, Goethe,
Schiller, and Hoffmann. In 1832 he left the university, and the next
two years he passed in utter wretchedness and poverty. Then he took
his first critical essay, _Literary Dreams_, to a magazine, and his
literary career began. Under Schelling’s influence he denied the
previous importance of Russian literature, and proclaimed the nascent
genius of Gógol, who had just made his appearance. Between 1836 and
1838 Byelínski’s circle of friends vaulted over to Hegel’s philosophy,
and under this new influence Byelínski rejected all lyrics and satire
as not compatible with an unbiased, objective contemplation of the
phenomena of life, and discredited all productions that dealt with the
living questions of the day. In 1839 he was called to St. Petersburg
to take charge of the critical and bibliographical departments of the
Memoirs of the Fatherland. Here began the third and most important
period of his activity: he soon recanted his former æsthetic theories
and evolved the theory of “art for life,” which henceforth became the
criterion for all literary criticisms. Of his many excellent essays of
this period dealing with Russian belles-lettres, the best is _A View
on Russian Literature for the Year 1847_. He died of consumption,
brought about mainly by his many privations.
THE NATURAL SCHOOL
Our literature has been the fruit of conscious thought; it appeared as
an innovation, it began by imitation. It did not stop there, but
continually strove to be independent, national; from being rhetorical it
strove to become simple, _natural_. This tendency has been made
perceptible by a continuous progress, and forms the meaning and soul of
the history of our literature. We will say without reserve that in no
Russian writer has this tendency been crowned by such success as in
Gógol. This end was attained only through the exclusive application of
art to reality, in spite of all ideals. It became necessary to direct
all the attention to the people, the masses, to depict common men, and
not merely the pleasant exceptions from the universal rule, that
invariably tempt the poets to idealise, and that bear upon themselves a
foreign stamp. That was Gógol’s great merit, and it is that precisely
which the men of the old culture regard as his crime against the laws of
art. By his manner he has completely changed the view on art itself. One
may apply to the works of all the Russian poets, by stretching the point
a little, the old and obsolete definition of poetry as “Nature adorned”;
but it is impossible to do so in relation to Gógol’s works. For these
the more appropriate definition is “a reproduction of reality in all its
truth.” Here the whole matter is in _types_, and the _ideal_ is here not
understood as an adornment (consequently--a lie), but as the correlation
of the types created by him, in accordance with the thought which he
wishes to develop in his production.
Art has in our days got the better of theory. The old theories have lost
all their credit; the very people that had been educated in them follow
not them, but a certain strange mixture of old and new conceptions.
Thus, for example, some of them, in rejecting the old French theory in
the name of Romanticism, were the first to give the aggravating example
of introducing into their novels persons from the lower strata, even
villains, under the appropriate appellation of Pilferer and Cutter; but
they immediately rectified themselves by bringing out moral persons,
together with the immoral ones, under the name of Truth-lover,
Charitable, etc. In the first case was to be seen the influence of new
ideas, in the second, of old conceptions, for according to the recipe of
ancient poetics at least one clever fellow must be added to a number of
fools, and at least one virtuous man to a number of good-for-nothings.
In either case these betweeners left out of sight the main thing,
namely, art; for it did not occur to them that their virtuous and
vicious persons were not men, not characters, but rhetorical
personifications of abstract virtues and vices. That explains better
than anything why for them theory, rule, is more important than fact,
reality: the latter is inaccessible to their comprehension. However, not
even talented writers and geniuses are always able to escape the
influence of theory. Gógol belongs to the number of the few who have
entirely avoided every influence of any and all theory. Though capable
of understanding art and of admiring it in the productions of other
poets, he nevertheless proceeded in his own way, following his deep and
true artistic instinct with which Nature had endowed him lavishly, and
without being tempted to imitate the successes of others. Of course,
that did not in itself give him any originality, but enabled him to
preserve and express in its entirety that originality which was the part
and parcel of his individuality, consequently, like talent, a natural
gift. It is for that reason that he appeared to many as having entered
Russian literature from without, while, in reality, he was its necessary
phenomenon, which was the logical conclusion of all its preceding
evolution.
Gógol’s influence on Russian literature has been enormous. Not only did
all the young talents throw themselves on the path which he had
indicated, but some writers who had already gained a reputation
abandoned their old way and proceeded on the new. Gógol wrote nothing
after the _Dead Souls_. There is only his school upon the arena of
literature. All blame and accusation that formerly was hurled at him is
now directed against the natural school, and whatever attack is still
made upon him is on account of that school. What is he, then, accused
of? There are but few accusations, and they are nearly always the same.
At first they attacked the school, they claimed, on account of its
eternal attacks upon the officials. In the representation of the life of
this class some saw sincerely, others feignedly, evil-minded
caricatures. These accusations have been silenced for some time. Now
they accuse the writers of the natural school for loving the people of
the lower occupations, for making heroes of their novels out of
peasants, janitors, coachmen, for describing the purlieus and refuges of
naked poverty and frequently of all kind of immorality. To put the new
writers to shame, the accusers point with triumph to the beautiful days
of Russian literature, refer to the names of Karamzín and Dmítriev, who
had chosen for their productions high and noble objects, and adduce as
an example of now forgotten prettiness the sentimental song: “Of all the
flowerets I loved most the rose!” But we shall remind them that the
first noteworthy novel, was written by Karamzín, and its heroine was
“Poor Líza,” a peasant girl, who was seduced by a coxcomb---- But, they
will say, everything is decent and pure there, and the Moscow peasant
girl does not yield to the best-brought-up lady. Now we have, at last,
come to the cause of the dispute: you see, the old poetics is to be
blamed for it. It does not mind your representing peasants, but not
otherwise than masqueraded in theatrical costumes, who display feelings
and ideas that are strange to their existence, position, and education,
and who express themselves in a language no one speaks, and least of all
peasants,--a literary language that is embellished by “wherewith,
aforementioned, than which,” and so forth.---- In short, the ancient
poetics permits you to represent anything you please, but immediately
prescribes so to adorn the subject under discussion as to make it
utterly impossible to discover what it is you had intended to represent.
The natural school follows the very opposite rule: the nearest possible
resemblance of the persons represented to their prototypes in reality
does not form its all, but is its first condition, a non-compliance with
which would vitiate anything good there may be in the composition. It is
a heavy condition which only a talent can comply with. After that, how
can those writers help loving and honouring that ancient poetics, who
formerly could without talent insinuate themselves successfully in the
field of poetry? How can they help regarding the natural school as their
most terrible enemy, since it has introduced a manner of writing which
is inaccessible to them? That, of course, refers only to people with
whom egotism enters in the discussion of this question; but there will
also be found many who in all sincere conviction do not love the natural
in art, through the influence of the old poetics upon them. These
people, in addition, complain with special bitterness, because art has
now forgotten its former purpose. “Poetry,” they say, “used to instruct
while amusing, compelled the reader to forget the tribulations and
sufferings of life, and represented to him only pleasant and smiling
pictures. The former poets used to represent also pictures of poverty,
but a poverty that was neat, washed, and expressing itself modestly and
with refinement; then, at the end of the novel there always appeared a
sentimental young lady or maiden, a daughter of rich and refined
parents, or at least a philanthropic young man,--and, in the name of
these kind hearts, was enthroned abundance and happiness where there was
poverty and misery, and grateful tears watered the beneficent hand,--and
the reader involuntarily raised his batiste handkerchief to his eyes and
felt that he was growing better and more sentimental----
“But now!--See what they are writing about now! Peasants in bast shoes
and gabardines who often smell of brandy; an old woman--a kind of
centaur, by whose dress one cannot easily tell of what gender that
creature may be; purlieus--refuges of misery, despair, and debauch,
which one can reach only by yards knee-deep in mud; some drunkard,--a
scribe or a seminarist turned teacher, expelled from service,--all that
is described from nature, in the nakedness of terrible truth, so that
the reading of it will give you some bad dreams----”
Thus, or in some such manner, speak the intrepid disciples of the
ancient poetics. In reality, their complaints are that poetry has quit
lying shamelessly, that it has changed from a nursery tale into a not
always pleasant narrative, that it has ceased being a rattle, by the
sound of which children leap about or fall asleep. Strange people, happy
people! They have succeeded in remaining all their life children, and
even in their old age to be minors,--and now they demand that all should
resemble them! Read your old fairy tales, nobody will keep you from
them; but leave to others the occupations that suit those who are of
age. For you--the lie; for us--truth: let us divide without quarrelling.
You do not want our share, and we will not take yours gratis----
But there is another cause which interferes with this friendly
division,--egotism which regards itself as virtue. Indeed, let us take a
man who is well-off, or even rich. He has just had a good, savoury
dinner (he has an excellent cook), has seated himself in his comfortable
arm-chair, with a cup of coffee, in front of a glowing fireplace; he
feels good and warm, a feeling of well-being makes him happy; he takes a
book and lazily turns its pages; his brow wrinkles over his eyes, the
smile disappears from his rosy lips, he is agitated, disturbed,
annoyed---- And there is reason for it! The book tells him that not all
people in the world live as well as he; that there are purlieus where a
whole family shakes with cold under rags, though it had, probably, but
lately known of ease; that there are people in the world who by birth
and fate are destined for misery,--that the last kopek goes for “green
wine” not always from indolence, but also from despair. And our happy
man feels ill at ease, and rather ashamed of his comfort. The whole
trouble is in that wretched book: he had picked it up for his pleasure,
and he had read himself into melancholy and ennui. Away with it! “A book
is to give you a pleasant pastime; I do not need it to find out that
there is much sorrow and sadness in life, and if I do read, it is to
forget it all!” he exclaims.
Yes, dear sybarite, for your peace books ought to lie, and the poor man
forget his woe, the hungry his hunger, the groans of suffering must
reach your ears as musical notes, lest your appetite be spoiled, your
sleep disturbed---- Now let us imagine another lover of pleasant reading
in the same situation. He has to give a reception, the time is drawing
near, and there is no money. His steward, Nikíta Fédorych, has for some
reason been slow in sending the amount. At last the money arrives, the
reception can come off. With a cigar in his mouth, happy and satisfied,
he is lying on the couch and, having nothing to do, his hands lazily
stretch out towards a book. Again the same story! That damnable book
tells him the exploits of his Nikíta Fédorych, that low-born churl, who
had been accustomed from childhood eagerly to pander to the passions and
whims of others, who was married to the ex-sweetheart of his master’s
progenitor---- Away with that wretched book!
Now imagine again another man in a comfortable condition, who in his
childhood had been running about barefooted, had been a messenger-boy,
and at fifty had somehow risen to rank, and who possessed a small
competency. Everybody reads, so he must too. But what does he find in
the book?--His biography and, at that, correctly told, though no one,
but himself, knows anything of the experiences of his life, and no
author could possibly have discovered his secret---- He is not merely
agitated, he is mad, and with a feeling of dignity he eases his anger by
the following consideration: “That’s the way they write nowadays! That’s
what Free Thought has come to! Did they write that way before? No! It
used to be such a fluent style, and they discussed such tender and
elevated subjects that it was a joy to read, and there was no cause for
annoyance!”
There is a special class of readers who, from a sentiment of
aristocratism, hate to meet people of the lower strata even in books,
especially those that have no sense of proprieties and refinement; they
despise dirt and misery, as the very opposite of their luxurious
parlours, boudoirs, and cabinets. These refer to the natural school only
with a haughty contempt and ironical smile---- Who are they, these
feudal barons, that they loathe the “low-born mob” that in their eyes is
lower than a good horse? Be not in a hurry to learn about them in books
of heraldry or at European courts: you will not find their
coats-of-arms; they do not go to Court, and if they have seen the
fashionable world, it was only in the street, through brilliantly
lighted windows, as much as curtains and blinds permitted them to do so.
They cannot boast of ancestors: they are generally officials, or
new-made nobles that are rich only in plebeian traditions of a
grandfather who was a steward, an uncle--a contractor, and, at times, a
grandmother--a baker of altar breads, and an aunt--a huckstress.
A contempt for the lower strata of society is in our days no longer a
vice of the higher classes; no, it is the disease of upstarts, a
monstrous outgrowth of ignorance, and vulgarity of feelings and
conceptions. A wise and cultured man would never manifest this disease,
if he were at all subject to it, because it does not comport with the
spirit of the time, because to proclaim it would be the croaking that
announces the raven. It seems to us that, though doublefacedness is
contemptible, in this case it is better than a raven sincerity, for it
bears witness to cleverness. The peacock that proudly opens his splendid
tail before the other birds has the reputation of a beautiful, not
clever, animal. What is to be said of the raven that haughtily displays
its borrowed plumage? Such haughtiness is always devoid of sense, and is
generally a plebeian vice. Where is there more display and pretence than
in those classes of society that come right after the lowest? It is so,
because there is most ignorance there. See how deeply the lackey
despises the peasant who is, in every respect, better, nobler, humaner
than he! Whence that pride in the lackey?--He has adopted his master’s
vices, and therefore he regards himself as more cultured than the
peasant. External lustre is ever taken by coarse natures for culture.
“What sense is there in flooding literature with peasants?” exclaim the
aristocrats of a certain category. In their opinion the writer is an
artisan who is to furnish work according to order. It does not enter
their minds that in the selection of the subject for his composition the
author cannot be guided by the will of others, or even his own free
choice, for art has its laws that must be complied with in order that
one may write well. It demands above all that the writer should be true
to his own nature, his talent, his fancy. How are we to explain the fact
that one likes to represent happy subjects, another sad ones, if not by
the nature, character, and talent of the poet? What one loves and is
interested in, that one knows best, and what one knows best, one
represents best. That is the most legitimate justification of the poet
who is blamed for the selection of his subjects; it is not satisfactory
only to those who have no understanding of art and vulgarly confound it
with the artisan’s profession.
Nature is the eternal model of art, and the greatest and noblest subject
in nature is man. And is a peasant not a man? But what can there be of
interest in a coarse, untutored man? Why, his soul, mind, heart,
passions, inclinations,--in short, the same as in the cultured man.
Granted, the latter is more interesting than the first; but is the
botanist interested only in artfully improved garden plants, and does he
neglect their wild-growing field prototypes? Is not for the anatomist
and physiologist the organism of a wild Australian as interesting as the
organism of an enlightened European? For what reason should art, in this
respect, differ so much from science? Then you say that a cultured man
is higher than an uncultured one. One has to agree with you in that, but
not unconditionally. Of course, the most frivolous worldly man stands
incomparably higher than a peasant, but in what respect? Only in worldly
education, but that in no way interferes with many a peasant’s being
higher than he, for example, as regards his mind, feelings, character.
Education only develops the moral powers of man, it does not give them;
Nature gives them to man. In this distribution of her precious gifts,
she acts blindly, without considering the classes. If from the educated
class of society there issues a greater number of remarkable men, it is
only because there are there more means for development, and not at all
because Nature has been more niggardly with the men of the lower classes
in the distribution of her gifts.
“What can one learn from a book in which is described some miserable
wretch who has drunk himself to perdition?” say again these second-hand
aristocrats. Why, certainly not worldly manners and refinement, but the
knowledge of man under certain conditions. One man gets drunk through
indolence, through bad bringing up, through weakness of character,
another through unfortunate circumstances in life for which he may not
bear the least blame. In either case, they are instructive and curious
examples for observation. Of course, it is much easier to turn away with
disgust from a fallen man than to stretch out to him a consoling and
helpful hand, just as it is much easier to judge him severely in the
name of morality than with sympathy and love to enter into his
situation, to probe the cause of his fall, and to pity him as a man,
even when he appears much to blame for his fall.
The Redeemer of the human race came into the world for all men; not wise
and educated men, but simple-minded and simple-hearted fishermen He
called to be “fishers of men”; not rich and happy men, but poor,
suffering, fallen men He sought, in order to console some, and encourage
and raise others. Festering sores on a body that was hardly covered with
unclean rags did not offend His eyes, which shone with love and charity.
He, the son of God, loved men humanely and sympathised with them in
their misery, dirt, shame, debauch, vices, wrongdoings. He bid those
throw a stone at the adulteress who could not in any way accuse their
own consciences, and put the hard-hearted judges to shame, and gave the
fallen woman a word of consolation,--and the robber, who breathed his
last on the cross as a well-deserved punishment, for one moment of
repentance, heard from Him the word of forgiveness and peace. But we,
the sons of men, we want to love only those of our brothers who are like
us, we turn away from the lower classes as from pariahs, fallen ones,
lepers. What virtues and deserts have given us the right to do so? Is it
not rather the very absence of all virtues and deserts? But the divine
word of love and brotherhood has not in vain been proclaimed to the
world.
That which formerly was only the duty of persons who had been called to
serve at the altar, or the virtue of the chosen few, has now become the
obligation of societies, and no longer serves as a token of mere virtue,
but also of culture of private individuals. See, how in our century
everybody is interested in the lot of the lower classes, how private
philanthropy is everywhere being changed into state institutions, how on
all sides are formed well-organised, richly endowed societies for the
aid of the needy and suffering, for the suppression and prevention of
misery and its inevitable consequence--immorality and debauch. This
universal movement, so noble, so humane, so Christian, meets its
detractors in the persons of the worshippers of a dull and stark
patriarchalism. They say that fashion, whim, vainglory, and not
philanthropy, are active here. Suppose it is so, but when and where have
similar trifling impulses not taken part in the best of human actions?
But how can one assert that only such impulses have been the cause of
these phenomena? How can one think that the chief creators of these
phenomena, who by their example have influenced the masses, are not
inspired by nobler and higher impulses? Naturally, there is no cause for
admiring the virtue of people who throw themselves into charity not from
a sense of neighbourly love, but from fashion, from imitation, from
vainglory. But it is a virtue as regards society which is so full of the
spirit that it can direct the activities of trivial people towards the
good! Is it not an extremely encouraging phenomenon of modern
civilisation, of progress of mind, education, and culture?
Entirely admitting that art must above all be art, we nevertheless think
that the idea of some kind of a pure, exclusive art that lives in its
own sphere, that has nothing in common with the other sides of life, is
an abstract, visionary idea. There has never and nowhere existed such an
art. No doubt, life is divided and subdivided into a multitude of sides
that have their separate existences; but these sides continually
interact in a living organism, and there is between them no sharply
drawn line. No matter how you may parcel out life, it is always one and
inseparable. They say: for science we need mind and reason, for art,
fancy, and they think that they have thus once and for all settled the
matter, and that it is fit to go in that shape into the archives. Does
not art need mind and reason as well? And can the savant get along
without fancy? No! The truth is that in art fancy plays the most active
and important part, while in science, mind and reason. There are, to be
sure, productions of poetry in which nothing is to be seen except a
strong, brilliant fancy; but that is not a common rule for artistic
productions.
Sergyéy Timoféevich Aksákov. (1791-1859.)
Aksákov represents the rare example in Russian literature of an author
who passed from the pseudo-classic style to the realistic school of
Gógol without taking part in the intervening Romantic movement. He was
born at Ufá, and graduated from what was then the Kazán University at
sixteen years of age. He then served as a government translator, and
devoted himself to literature, mainly to translations from the French.
His sympathies were entirely with Shishkóv, Karamzín’s opponent. In
1827 he was made a censor, in which capacity he gained an unenviable
reputation as an unscrupulous partisan. In the thirties he came under
the influence of Gógol, and in 1833 he wrote _The Snowstorm_, which
was later followed by an admirable series of sketches on angling and
on hunting, containing charming pictures of animal life. In 1856
appeared his great work, _The Family Chronicle_, in which he gives
vivid descriptions from the life of a landed proprietor in the
Orenbúrg country, abounding in exquisite landscape pictures. _The
Family Chronicle_ differs from all the other productions of the
realistic school in that there is not a word of fiction in it, but
that it is based entirely on actual facts.
FROM “THE FAMILY CHRONICLE”
Towards the end of June the heat was oppressive. After a sultry night
there blew, at daybreak, a fresh eastern breeze, but it subsided as soon
as the sun grew warmer. Grandfather awoke at sunrise. He found it warm
sleeping in a small upper room, even though the old-fashioned window
frame with its tiny panes was lifted up to its fullest capacity, because
his bed was curtained with a bar of homespun netting. This was a
necessary precaution, for without the bar the pestering mosquitoes would
have eaten him up and would have kept him from falling asleep. The
winged musicians swarmed around in clouds and stuck their long stings
through the thin screen, and they hummed all night their wearisome
serenades. It is funny for me to say so, but I can’t help confessing
that I like the descant buzz and even the biting of the mosquitoes; I
hear in it the oppressive summer, the luxurious, sleepless nights, the
shores of the Buguruslán that are overgrown with green bushes, from
which resound on all sides the songs of the nightingales; I recall the
rapture of my young heart and the sweet, unaccountable pining for which
I would now gladly give the rest of my flickering life.
Grandfather awoke, with his warm hand wiped the sweat from his straight,
high forehead, put his head out from under the bar, and began to laugh.
Vánka Mazán and Nikánorka Tanaychénok were snoring on the floor on which
they were stretched out in laughable, though artistic, postures. “I
declare, the dog’s children are snoring!” said grandfather and smiled
again.
Stepán Mikháylovich was an enigmatic man. After such a strong verbal
exordium one would have expected a poke in the side of the sleeper, with
the viburnum cane which always stood by his bed, or a kick with the
foot, or even a greeting with the chair; but grandfather only laughed
out loud as he awoke, and thus, as they say, got into a good humour for
the whole day.
He rose without any noise, made one or two signs of the cross, stepped
with his bare feet into leather slippers that were worn red, and,
dressed in nothing but a shirt of peasant homespun (grandmother would
not let him have loom-woven linen for shirts), he went out on the porch
where he was refreshed by a whiff of the morning moisture. I just said
that Arína Vasílevna did not give him any loom-woven linen for shirts,
and every reader would be right in remarking that this was not in
keeping with the character of the wedded pair. But really I can’t help
it, and I beg you not to be angry with me, it was as I said: feminine
nature carried the day over the male, as is always the case! Though she
was frequently beaten for giving him coarse underwear, she continued to
offer him the same, until the old man took it as a matter of course.
Once grandfather made use of the last and the most efficacious means: he
chopped up with an axe, on the threshold of his room, all the underwear
that had been made of peasant homespun, in spite of grandmother’s wail,
who kept on imploring that Stepán Mikháylovich might strike her, but
should spare his own property, but even this means was of no avail; the
coarse underwear made its appearance again,--and the old man
surrendered.
I am much to be blamed for interrupting the story about “my
grandfather’s good day,” in order to contradict the reader’s possible
remark. Without disturbing anyone, he took down a felt blanket which
always lay in the storeroom, spread it out on the upper step of the
porch, and sat down upon it, to receive, as was his custom, the rising
sun.
Before sunrise a man’s heart experiences unconsciously a happy feeling;
but grandfather had the additional pleasure of looking at his estate
which was then already well provided with all necessary farm buildings.
It is true, the yard was not fenced in, and the cattle from the peasant
yards, which were gathering into a common herd before being driven out
into the pasture, made a call upon him in passing, just as on that
morning and as always happened in the evenings. A few dirty pigs rubbed
and scratched themselves against the very porch on which grandfather was
sitting, and, grunting, feasted on lobster shells and all kinds of
remnants from the dinner which were unceremoniously thrown out near the
same porch. Cows and sheep made their visits too. Naturally there were
left indecent traces of their calls, but grandfather saw nothing
disagreeable in all that, but on the contrary took his delight in
watching the healthy cattle, which were to him a sure sign of the
sufficiency and well-being of his peasants.
Soon the loud snapping of a long shepherd whip drove the visitors away.
The servants began to rise. The tall groom Spiridón, who was called
Spírka to a good old age, led out one after another two roan colts and
one bay, hitched them to a post, groomed them, and then walked them
around by a long rope, while grandfather admired their stature, as he
also took delight in the breed he expected to raise from them (he was
later completely successful in that). Then awoke also the old stewardess
who slept in the loft of the cellar; she came out of the cellar, went to
the Buguruslán to get washed, sighed, sobbed (that was her unchangeable
custom), prayed to God while turning to the east, and began to wash,
rinse, and clean the pots and dishes.
The swallows and martins chirped and sang, circling merrily in the sky;
the quails called loudly in the fields; the songs of the skylarks rang
out in the air; the crake cried hoarsely, sitting in the bushes; the
whistling of waterhens, and the tocking and bleating of wild snipes were
borne thither from the nearby swamp, and the blue-throated warblers vied
in mocking the nightingales.--The bright sun rolled out from beyond the
hill.
Smoke rose from the peasants’ huts, bending with the wind in light grey
columns, like a procession of river boats flaunting their flags; the
peasants started for the field.
Grandfather wanted to wash himself in cold water, and then to drink tea.
He awoke his disgracefully sleeping servants. They leaped up, like
half-witted people, in fright, but Stepán Mikháylovich’s merry voice
reassured them: “Mazán, fetch me some water! Tanaychénok, wake Aksyútka
and the lady,--and tea!” There was no need of repeating the commands:
awkward Mazán was running as fast as his feet could carry him with a
bright brass wash-basin to get some water at the spring; and agile
Tanaychénok awoke the homely servant girl Aksyútka who only fixed the
kerchief that had slipped from her head and at once went to wake the
good old lady Arína Vasílevna. A few minutes later the whole house was
on its feet, and everybody knew that the old gentleman had gotten up in
a good humour. Fifteen minutes later a table was placed near the porch,
and it was covered with a fine white cloth of home make; upon it boiled
a samovár in the shape of a huge brass tea-pot, and Aksyútka was busy
attending to it; the old lady, Arína Vasílevna, bade Stepán Mikháylovich
good-morning, without sighing and groaning, as would be proper on other
mornings, and loudly and merrily asked his health: “How did you rest
yourself, and what kind of dreams did you have?”
Grandfather greeted his wife kindly and called her Arísha; he never
kissed her hand, but gave her his hand to kiss as a token of his favour.
Arína Vasílevna bloomed out and grew younger. Her obesity and clumsiness
disappeared as if by magic! She brought a little stool and seated
herself on the porch near grandfather, which she never dared to do if he
did not receive her graciously.
“Let us have tea together, Arísha!” said Stepán Mikháylovich, “before it
is hot. Though it was sultry to sleep, I slept so well that I had no
dreams? And you?”
Such a question was an unusual favour, and grandmother speedily replied
that she slept well every time Stepán Mikháylovich passed a good night,
but that Tanyúsha had tossed a great deal. Tanyúsha was the youngest
daughter, and the old man loved her more than his other daughters, as is
often the case. These words disquieted him, and he ordered not to wake
Tanyúsha, but let her awaken herself. Tatyána Stepánovna had been
wakened together with Aleksándra and Elizavéta Stepánovna and they were
all dressed, but they did not dare tell him that. Tanyúsha immediately
undressed herself, went back to bed, ordered to close the shutters in
her room and, though she could not fall asleep, lay for two hours in the
dark; grandfather was satisfied because Tatyána had had a good rest. His
only son, who was nine years old, was never made to get up early.
The elder daughters appeared at once. Stepán Mikháylovich graciously
gave them his hand to kiss and called one Lizánka and the other Leksána.
Neither of them was a silly girl. Aleksándra united her father’s
vivacity and excitability with her cunning mind, but she did not have
his good qualities. Grandmother was a very simple woman and was
completely controlled by her daughters. If she ever undertook to outwit
Stepán Mikháylovich, she did so solely by their instigation, which the
old man knew all by heart and for which, on account of her
simple-mindedness, she had often to pay dearly. He also knew that his
daughters were ready to deceive him at any convenient moment, and only
from ennui, or in order to preserve his own peace, that is, only when he
was in good humour, did he allow them to think that they were really
deceiving him; but in the first fit of anger he told them all without
mercy, in the most unceremonious words, and sometimes he even beat them.
But the daughters, like Eve’s real grandchildren, did not lose their
courage: the moment the hour of anger passed and their father’s face was
becalmed, they set out once more to try their old tricks, and they were
often successful.
Having drunk his tea and talked over all kinds of things with his
family, grandfather got ready for the field. He had told Mazán long
before: “The horse!” and an old greyish brown gelding was already at the
porch; it was hitched to a long peasant waggon that was very
comfortable, being woven with a close rope netting and having a long
seat in the middle that was covered with a blanket. Groom Spiridón was
seated in the waggon as a coachman; his livery was quite simple, that
is, it consisted only of his shirt; he was barefooted and was girded
with a red woollen girdle from which hung a key and a brass comb. On a
previous occasion Spiridón had ventured out on such an expedition even
without a hat; but grandfather scolded him for it, so he had prepared
this time something in the shape of a hat out of broad bast bands.
Grandfather made fun of his headgear and, putting on his field coat of
unbleached homespun and a cap, and placing under him a cloak against
rainy weather, seated himself in the waggon. Spiridón placed under
himself his common gabardine, having folded it three times; it was made
of white cloth but was painted blood-red with madder, which grew very
profusely in the fields. This red colour was so customary with our old
men that the neighbours called the Bagróv servants “madderlings”; I
heard that nickname myself some fifteen years after my grandfather’s
death.
Stepán Mikháylovich was satisfied with everything in the field. He
looked at the deflorated rye which stood like a wall and as high as a
man’s stature. A soft breeze was blowing, and bluish waves passed over
it, appearing now lighter, now darker in the sun. It was a joy for the
master to look at such a field! Grandfather surveyed also the young oats
and all the summer crops; then he went to the untilled field, and had
himself taken up and down his ploughed-up acres. That was his usual way
of judging how well the ploughing had been done; every clod of earth
which had been untouched by the plough gave a jerk to the shaky waggon,
and if grandfather happened to be out of sorts, he stuck a small stick
or a withe into such a place, sent for the village elder, if he was not
with him, and the inquest began right on the spot. This time everything
went off favourably; there may have been some untouched spots, only
Stepán Mikháylovich did not notice them, or did not wish to notice them.
He cast also a glance at his prairie meadows, and looked with delight at
the dense high grass that was to be mowed in a few days. He visited also
the peasant fields, in order to find out for himself who was going to
have a good harvest and who not. He also looked at their untilled
ground, investigated matters closely, and forgot nothing. Passing by a
fallow field and noticing ripe strawberries, grandfather stopped and
with the aid of Mazán gathered a fine bunch full of fine, large berries
which he took home as a present for his Arísha. In spite of the heat he
was away until noon. The moment they noticed grandfather’s waggon coming
down the hill, the dinner stood on the table, and the whole family
waited for him on the porch.
“Well, Arísha,” merrily spoke grandfather, “it is a fine harvest God is
giving us! The Lord’s mercy is great! Here are some strawberries for
you!”
Grandmother beamed with joy.
“The berries are nearly all ripe,” he continued, “so let them begin
picking to-morrow!”
Saying these words, he went into the ante-chamber; the odour of warm
cabbage soup was wafted to him from the hall. “Ah, it is ready!” Stepán
Mikháylovich said with a happier mien, “thanks!” and without going to
his room, he went straight into the hall and seated himself at the
table. I must mention that it was grandfather’s custom, when he returned
from the field, whether it was early or late, to find the dinner on the
table, and God preserve them if they did not get ready with the meal
upon his return. Such mishaps had brought about some sad results. But on
that lucky day everything went as if greased, without a hitch. A sturdy
fellow, Nikólka Ruzán, stood behind grandfather with a large
birch-branch, in order to drive away the flies. The hot cabbage soup,
which a Russian will not refuse in the hottest weather, grandfather
sipped from a wooden spoon, because a silver spoon burned his lips. Then
followed cold beet soup with ice, with transparent sterlet, with salted
sturgeon, which was as yellow as wax, and with shelled crawfishes, and
similar light dishes. All that was washed down by home-brewed beer and
kvas, also with ice. It was a very jolly dinner. All spoke aloud,
jested, laughed. There were, however, dinners that passed in terrible
silence and in speechless expectation of some outbreak. All the boys and
girls of the estate knew that the master was dining in a good mood, and
they packed the hall, expecting to catch some dainties. Grandfather
treated them lavishly, because there was always prepared five times as
much food as was necessary. After dinner he at once lay down to sleep.
The flies were driven out from under the bar which was let down over
grandfather and tucked down under the feather mattress. Soon a mighty
snore gave evidence that the master was sleeping a heroic sleep.
Everybody went to his place to take a nap. Mazán and Tanaychénok, having
had a solid meal from the remnants of the master’s table, stretched
themselves out on the floor of the ante-chamber, near the very door into
grandfather’s sleeping-room. They had already had a nap in the forenoon,
which did not keep them from falling asleep again; but the stifling air
and burning sun which shone through the window woke them up soon. The
sleep and the heat had dried up their throats. They wanted to cool their
burning throats with the master’s iced home-brew, so these bold
lazybones had recourse to the following trick. Through the open door
they reached for grandfather’s morning gown and sleeping-cap which lay
on a chair, near the door. Tanaychénok put on his master’s garment and
seated himself on the porch, and Mazán ran with a pitcher to the cellar,
woke the stewardess, who, like everybody else in the house, slept the
sleep of the dead, and asked in a hurry for some iced beer for the
master who had just risen. When the stewardess expressed her doubt about
the master’s waking, Mazán pointed to Tanaychénok’s figure that was
sitting on the porch in morning gown and night-cap. The pitcher was
filled with beer, ice was put into it, and Mazán ran speedily away with
his booty. They divided the contents in a brotherly way, put the morning
gown and night cap in the old place, and had to wait for a whole hour
before grandfather awoke.
The master awoke in even a better frame of mind than upon the previous
day, and his first words were: “Cold beer!” The servants were frightened
out of their wits. Tanaychénok ran to the stewardess who saw immediately
that they had themselves drunk the first pitcher. She gave the liquor,
but followed the messenger to the porch where the real master was now
sitting in his morning gown. The deception was made evident from her
first words, and Mazán and Tanaychénok, trembling with fear, fell down
before the master’s feet, and what do you suppose grandfather did? He
laughed out loud, sent for Arísha and his daughters, and laughing loud,
told them the trick of his servants. The poor fellows breathed more
freely, and one of them even smiled. Stepán Mikháylovich noticed that
and came very near getting angry. His brows began to be furrowed, but
his soul was so full of calm restfulness from the whole merry day, that
his forehead cleared off right away, and he only looked angrily and
said: “Well, God will forgive you this time; but if it happens another
time--” It was not necessary to finish the sentence.
One can’t help marvelling how it is that the servants had dared to
practise such a sharp trick upon their master who was senselessly
excitable and who during his excitement became very cruel. I have
frequently noticed in the course of my life that the severer the master,
the more daring were the acts of their servants. That was not an
exceptional case with my grandfather. The same Vánka Mazán, having once
swept the sleeping room of Stepán Mikháylovich and just getting ready to
make the bed, was so seduced by the soft feather beds and pillows that
he took it into his head to pamper himself; so he lay down upon the
master’s bed and fell asleep. Grandfather found him sleeping in that
bed, and he only laughed out loud. It is true, he gave him a blow with
his viburnum stick, but that was only for fun, to have a good laugh at
Mazán’s fright.
He awoke about five o’clock in the afternoon, drank some iced homebrew,
and, in spite of the stifling heat, wanted to drink some tea, believing
that a hot drink would make the heat more bearable. He went down to take
a swim in the cool Buguruslán which flowed under the very windows of the
house, and, upon returning, found his whole family waiting for him at
the same tea table, which was now placed in the shade, with the same
boiling teapot-samovár, and with the same Aksyútka. Having had his fill
of his favourite sweat-producing drink, with thick cream and its browned
skin, grandfather proposed to all a ride to the mill. Of course, all
gladly consented, and two of my aunts, Aleksándra and Tatyána
Stepánovna, took some fishing rods with them, for they were very fond of
angling. In a minute two long waggons were hitched up: in one of them
seated themselves grandfather and grandmother, placing between them
their only heir, the precious scion of their ancient noble race. In the
other sat my three aunts and the lad Nikoláshka Ruzán, who was taken
along, in order to dig for worms in the dam and to put them on the
ladies’ hooks.
At the mill they brought a bench for grandmother, and she seated herself
in the shade of the mill barn, not far from the mill trough, near which
her younger daughters were fishing. The elder daughter, Elizavéta
Stepánovna, went, as much to please her father as from her own love of
farming, with Stepán Mikháylovich to look at the mill and the grinding.
The young boy now looked at the sister’s angling (he was not yet allowed
to fish in deep places), now played near his mother who did not turn her
eyes away from him, fearing that he might somehow roll into the water.
Both millstones were at work: in one of them they were grinding wheat
for the master’s table; in the other, rye for strangers; the stamping
mill was crushing millet. Grandfather was an expert in every part of the
farm; he knew well the mechanism of the mill, and was explaining all its
details to his clever and attentive daughter. He saw at a glance all the
imperfections in the gearing, or all the mistakes in the position of the
millstones. He ordered to let one down half a notch, and the flour came
out much finer, which pleased the customer very much. In the other
grinding apparatus he discovered by the sound that one pin in the wheel
was beginning to be worn out. He ordered to shut off the water, and
miller Boltunénok jumped down to examine the wheel. He said:
“You are right, Father Stepán Mikháylovich! One pin is a little worn
off.”
“Yes, yes, a little,” replied grandfather without any displeasure. “If I
had not come, the wheel would have broken over night.”
“It is my fault, Stepán Mikháylovich, I did not notice it.”
“God forgive you! Let us have a new wheel, and get a new pin made for
the old wheel; see to it that the new wheel is not any wider, nor
narrower than the rest, that is the main point.”
They brought a new wheel, which had been fitted before, and put it in
place; they oiled it, let in the water,--not all at once, but by degrees
(also by order of grandfather),--and the millstone started to hum and
grind, without interruption or rattling, but smoothly and evenly. Then
grandfather went with his daughter to the stamping mill, took out of the
stamp a handful of crushed millet, blew the dust away from the palm of
his hand, and said to the customer, a neighbouring Mordvínian: “Look
here, neighbour Vasyúkha! Don’t you see there is not a single unbroken
grain? If you let the stamping go on, there will be less of flour.”
Vasyúkha tried it himself, and he convinced himself that grandfather was
telling the truth. He thanked him and bowed, that is, he only shook his
head, and ran away to shut off the water.
From there grandfather went with his pupil to the barnyard. He found
everything in excellent order. There was a large number of geese, ducks,
turkeys, and hens, and an old woman and her grandchild looked after them
all. As a special favour, grandfather let them both kiss his hand, and
he ordered that the fowlkeeper should receive, in addition to the usual
allowance, twenty pounds of wheat flour a month for cakes. Stepán
Mikháylovich returned in good spirits to Arína Vasílevna, and he was
satisfied with everything: his daughter was clever, the mill was
grinding well, and the fowlkeeper Tatyána Gorozhána was looking well
after the fowls.
The heat had long subsided. The coolness from the water increased the
freshness of the approaching evening; a long cloud of dust rose along
the road and came nearer to the village; one could hear in it the
bleating and lowing of the farm animals; the declining sun disappeared
behind a steep hill. Standing on the dam, Stepán looked with delight at
the broad pond which lay immovable like a mirror between its low banks;
fishes kept on playing in the water and leaping up, but Stepán
Mikháylovich was not fond of fishing.
“Arísha, it is time to start home; the elder, I suppose, is waiting for
me,” said he. Seeing him in a happy frame of mind, the younger daughters
began to beg him to let them stay a little longer, saying that at
sundown the fish bite better, and that they would walk home in half an
hour. Grandfather consented and drove away in his waggon with
grandmother, while Elizavéta Stepánovna seated herself with her brother
in the other waggon. Stepán Mikháylovich was not mistaken. The elder was
waiting for him at the porch, and he was not alone, but several peasants
and their wives were there also. The elder had seen the master, and he
knew that he was in good humour, and he had told some peasants about it.
Some of them who had some special request to make, such as exceeded any
usual favour, made use of the favourable opportunity, and they were all
satisfied. Grandfather gave some grain to a peasant who had not yet paid
off his old debt, though he could have done so; he permitted another one
to marry off his son, without waiting for winter, and not to the girl
which he had himself selected; he permitted a guilty soldier’s widow,
whom he had ordered to be driven out of the village, to live with her
father, and so forth.
More than that. They were treated each to a silver cup of strong
home-made brandy, and this cup held more than a beakerful. Grandfather
gave short and clear orders to the elder, and hastened to the supper
which had been waiting for him for some time. The supper table differed
little from dinner, and undoubtedly they ate a more solid meal, because
it was not so hot. After supper Stepán Mikháylovich was in the habit of
sitting up another half an hour in his shirt and cooling himself on the
porch, after his family had been excused to retire. This time he jested
and laughed a little longer than usual with his servants. He ordered
Mazán and Tanaychénok to have a boxing match, and he urged them on in
such a way that they belaboured each other not in jest and tore each
other’s hair. Having had all the fun he wanted, grandfather gave the
command for them to come to their senses and stop.
A short, marvellous summer night lay over all Nature. The evening
twilight had not yet all disappeared! The azure of the sky grew darker
from hour to hour, and from hour to hour the stars shone more
brilliantly. Louder and louder became the voices and calls of the birds
of the night, as if they were getting nearer to man! The mill sounded
nearer, and the stamping mill stamped in the damp night mist----
Grandfather rose from his porch, made one or two signs of the cross
towards the starry heavens, and lay down to sleep, in spite of the
closeness of the room, on the hot feather bed, and he ordered the
servants to lower the mosquito bar over him.
Aleksyéy Stepánovich Khomyakóv. (1804-1860.)
Khomyakóv was born in Moscow, where he passed his early childhood and
youth, and there early came in contact with some of the representative
men of letters. In 1821 he was fired with enthusiasm for the Greek
struggle for independence, and ran away from home to join the Greek
patriots. He was, however, overtaken in time by his father, and
entered the Russian army, which he left in 1825. Soon after began to
appear his patriotic and religious songs that attracted the public
attention by their artistic perfection. He again joined the army
during the Turkish campaign of 1828. A few years later he wrote two
tragedies, but they were a complete failure. He then devoted himself
to prose, devoting all his energies to the cause of Slavophilism and
the propagation of Greek-Catholic theology.
Into English have been translated: _Kiev_, in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian
Lyrics_, London, 1887; _To My Children_, in _Short Poems and Hymns_,
the latter mostly translations, by W. Palmer, Oxford, 1845 (reprinted
in _Russia and the English Church during the Last Fifty Years_, vol.
i., London, 1895, and in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 17,
and in Khomyakóv’s _Complete Works_, vol. iv., Moscow, 1900); _The
Island_ and _To Russia_, in _Russia and the English Church_, vol. i.
(reprinted in Khomyakóv’s _Complete Works_, vol. iv.); _The Eagle_ and
several extracts, by H. Havelock, in The Anglo-Russian Literary
Society, No. 17; _Russian Song_, by N. H. Dole, in Library of the
World’s Best Literature.
TO MY CHILDREN
Time was when I loved at still midnight to come,
My children, to see you asleep in your room;
The cross, holy sign on your foreheads to trace,
And commend you in prayer to the love and the grace
Of our gracious and merciful God.
To keep gentle guard, and watch over your rest,
To think how your spirits were sinless and blest,
In hope to look forward to long happy years
Of blithe, merry youth, without sorrows or fears,
Oh, how sweet, how delicious it was!
But now, if I go, all is silence, all gloom;
None sleep in that crib, nothing breathes in that room;
The light that should burn at the image is gone:
Alas! so it is, children now I have none,
And my heart, how it painfully throbs!
Dear children, at that same midnight do ye,
As I once prayed for you, now in turn pray for me;
Me who loved well the cross on your foreheads to trace;
Now commend me in turn to the mercy and grace
Of our gracious and merciful God.
--Transl. by Rev. W. Palmer, in _Short Poems and Hymns_, Oxford,
1845.
THE EAGLE
High hast thou built thine eyrie,
Eagle of the Northern Slavs,
Wide hast thou spread thy wings,
High into heaven hast thou soared.
Fly! But in the lofty deep of ether,
Where thy scarce-breathing breast
Is warmed by the passage of Freedom,
Forget not thy younger kin!
Look to the Southern Steppe,
Look to the far-off West:
Many are there, where the Danube rages,
Where the Alpine clouds gather way,
In the mountain dells, in the dark Carpathians,
In the Balkan defiles wood-clothed,
In the clutches of faithless Teutons,
In the steely chains of the Tartar,
And thy brothers walk in fetters
Till thy voice shall sound in their ears,
Till thy wings thou shalt spread protecting
O’er their heads grown feeble with bondage.
Forget them not, Northern Eagle,
Send them thy resonant call
And in slavery’s night console them
With thy free and cheering light.
Feed them with thoughts elating,
With the hope of happier days,
And warm with loving kindness
These hearts whose blood is as thine.
Their hour shall come: their pinions
Wax strong, and their talons sharp,
They shall cry, full-grown, and shall sunder
At a breath the bonds that now bind.
--Transl. by H. Havelock, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society,
No. 17.
KIEV
Kiev! upon the Dnieper built,
Thy lofty walls above me tower;
Like silver from the furnace pure,
The river gleams where dark hills lour.
All hail to thee, thou ancient town!
The cradle thou of Russia’s fame!
And hail to thee, O Dnieper swift,
The bath, whence glorious Russia came!
In the calm air the songs resound,
The evening bells ring out their note;
“Whence come ye, Pilgrim-Brothers, say,
Your homage who to God devote?”
“I come from where the quiet Don
Glides forth, the beauty of our homes”;
“I come where stern Yenisey
In boundless waters proudly foams.”
“My home is on the Euxine shore.”
“Mine in those distant realms is found
Where wide-extending ice-fields hold
The sea within their rigid bound.”
“Savage the view of Altay’s ridge,
Eternal is the snowy glare;
My native town time-honoured Pskov,
My own dear home is there, is there.”
“I come from cold Ladoga’s Lake”;
“I from the Neva’s soft blue face”;
“I come from Kama’s flowing stream”;
“And I from Moscow’s fond embrace.”
All hail, Kiev! most wondrous town,
With turbid stream which Dnieper laves!
Grander than seats imperial are
The silent shadows of thy caves.
We know in night of times gone by,
In darkness of antiquity,
The brightly shining Eastern sun
Glowed ever, Russia, over thee.
And now, from strange, and distant, lands,
From far-off steppes,--from unknown homes,--
From deepest rivers of the North,--
A crowd of praying children comes.
In loving company well met,
We gather in thy sanctuary;
Where are thy sons, Volhynia?
Galich, where is thy progeny?
Woe! woe! as though by savage fires,
They all by Poles consumèd are;
By noisy banquetings deceived,
They yield to festive charm and glare.
Captives to sword and treachery,
They are ensnared by falsehood’s flame;
They move beneath a foreign flag,
They bow unto a stranger’s name.
Awake, Kiev! again arise,
Upon thy fallen children call,
On them let father’s tenderness,
With voice of supplication, fall.
Thy sons, erst ravished from thy breast,
Will listen to thy soothing cry;
Will tear asunder cunning chain,
The foreign flag will pass it by;
Will come again, as in past days,
Will in thy love themselves disport,
Will lay their faces in thy lap,
Will bring their vessels to thy port.
And all around their native flag
Thy strong commands they will await;
Their life’s full spirit,--spirit’s life,--
Will be by thee regenerate!
--From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_.
Fédor Ivánovich Tyútchev. (1803-1873.)
Born almost at the same time with Púshkin, Tyútchev continued the
tradition of Púshkin’s school until the seventies. When only fourteen
years of age, he was chosen a member of the Society of Lovers of
Russian Literature for his masterly translation of poems from Horace.
In 1823 he was attached to the Russian embassy at Munich; then, after
serving in various capacities, he was made president of the Commission
of Foreign Censorship, which office he held to his death. Though
frequently contributing to the periodicals, Tyútchev remained unknown
to the middle of the century, when Nekrásov and Turgénev rediscovered
him. His verses are very melodious and tunable, but rather narrow of
scope.
In English translation are to be found: _Scarce cooled from midday
heat_ and _The Spring-Storm_, by John Pollen, in _Rhymes from the
Russian_, London, 1891; _I suffer still from anguished longing_, by A.
C. Coolidge, in Harvard Monthly Magazine, 1895, and The Anglo-Russian
Literary Society, No. 15; _Spring Waters_, _Sunrise_, _Evening_, _The
Leaves_, by N. H. Dole, in the Library of the World’s Best Literature.
A few poems, translated by N. H. Dole, are given in G. Schirmer’s
Octavo Choruses for Mixed Voices, New York; the _Sunrise_, by Dole,
was also given in the Ladysmith Leader and Wellington Extension News,
Nov. 6, 1901.
Scarce cooled from midday heat
Sparkles the summer night;
O’er sinful earth a threatening cloud
Trembles with lightnings bright.
Heaven’s sleepy eyelids ope,
And through its distant gleam,
The threatening orbs of One above
O’er earth to kindle seem.
--From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_.
THE SPRING-STORM
I love the storm in early May,
When spring’s first maiden thunder peals,
And, laughing in its frolic play,
Across the blue sky softly steals.
The little rumblings roll and reel;
The rain-shower glistens; flies the dust;
The rain-drop pearls in clusters cling,
And golden gleams the fields encrust.
From hillside headlong speeds the rill,
In groves the birds keep twittering,
And chattering wood and murmuring hill
Echo with joy the thundering.
--From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_.
───────
I suffer still from anguished longing,
For towards thee still my spirit strives.
In a twilight of memories thronging
E’en now thine image still survives.
Thine image sweet, forgotten never,
Before me always, near and far,
Unreachable, unchanging ever
As in the sky of night, a star.
--Transl. by A. C. Coolidge.
SUNRISE
In solemn calm the Orient waits,
A deep, mysterious silence keeping;
No sign to tell if Day be sleeping
Or if he halt before her gates.
Now, now the mountain tops grow white,
The mists the vales below still cumber,
Still towns and peaceful hamlets slumber--
But heavenward turn your eager sight!
Behold it! Now a gleam awakes
And like young Passion’s timid blushes
The red glow brighter, rosier flushes,
Then high above the zenith breaks!
A moment passes: swift the light
Throughout the Ether’s vast dominions
Sweeps onward on her glittering pinions
And conquers all the hosts of Night.
--Transl. by N. H. Dole, in Schirmer’s Octavo Choruses, No. 623.
Aleksándr Ivánovich Gértsen (Herzen). (1812-1870.)
Gértsen was the son of a rich landed proprietor by the name of
Yákovlev, and of a German mother (Herzen). He was brought up in the
house of his father, where he early acquired several languages and a
love for the German literature of the period, especially for Schiller
and Goethe. He later devoted himself entirely to the exact sciences
and graduated in 1833 from the University of Moscow with a silver
medal for his thesis, _The Historical Evolution of the System of
Copernicus_. While attending the university, Gértsen was the soul of
one of those circles of the thirties where all kinds of philosophical
and social themes were discussed with great wit and enthusiasm. He
later served in several government capacities, chiefly in St.
Petersburg, where he continued to be a centre around which gathered
all the progressive forces of the younger generations. In 1844 the two
extreme literary camps completely severed their connections: the
Slavophiles rallied around Khomyakóv and the Aksákovs, while the
Westerners gathered around Gértsen and Ogarév. In 1847 Gértsen went
abroad never to return. In the last few years of his residence in St.
Petersburg he had evinced great literary talent: his best known
stories are _The Thieving Magpie_ and _Who is to be Blamed?_ During
his long residence abroad he published the famous _Bell_, in which
periodical he carried on a relentless propaganda for constitutionalism
in Russia. In _From the Other Shore_ (originally published in German)
he expressed his disenchantment with the West, and in _Past and
Reflections_ he has given a series of vivid pictures of his times. His
influence as a political agitator and as a man of letters may be
traced through several generations in Russia.
Gértsen wrote two of his works in English: _My Exile in Siberia_, 2
vols., London, 1855, and _The Russian People and Their Socialism_, _A
Letter to M. Jules Michelet_, Brantwood, 1855.
SLAVOPHILES AND PANSLAVISM
Side by side with our circle were our opponents, _nos amis les ennemis_,
or, more correctly, _nos ennemis les amis_,--the Moscow Slavophiles.
The war between us has long been ended, and we have shaken each others
hands; but in the beginning of the forties we had to meet as
enemies,--so a consistent adherence to our principles demanded. We might
have avoided quarrelling with them for their childish adoration of the
childish period of our history; but accepting their Orthodoxy at full
value, and seeing their ecclesiastic intolerance in both directions,--in
the direction of science and in the direction of the schism,--we had to
assume a hostile attitude towards them. We saw in their doctrine a new
oil with which to anoint the Tsar, a new chain imposed upon thought, a
new subordination of conscience to the servile Byzantine Church.
It is the Slavophiles’ fault that for a long time we did not understand
the Russian people, or their history: their iconographic ideals and
incense smoke have hindered our discerning the national life and the
foundations of the village commune.
The Orthodoxy of the Slavophiles, their historical patriotism and
exaggerated, irritating feeling of nationality were provoked by extremes
in the other direction. The importance of their view, its truth and
essential part are not in Orthodoxy and not in national exclusiveness,
but in those elements of Russian life which they have discovered beneath
the fertiliser of the artificial civilisation.
The idea of nationality is in itself a conservative idea, based on the
exclusiveness of its rights and the clannishness of its associations;
there are in it the Judaic conception of the superiority of race, and
the aristocratic pretensions of purity of blood and entailment.
Nationality, as a banner, as a battle-cry, only then is surrounded by a
revolutionary aureole when the nation fights for independence, when it
throws off a foreign yoke. It is for this reason that national
sentiments, with all their exaggerations, are full of poetry in Italy
and in Poland, and at the same time banal in Germany.
It would be even more ridiculous than with the Germans to prove our
nationality, for even those do not doubt it who curse us. They hate us
from fear, but do not deny us, as Metternich denied Italy. We ought to
have opposed our nationality to our Germanised government and to its
renegades. This domestic war could not be raised to an epos. The
appearance of the Slavophiles as a school and as a separate doctrine was
quite proper; but if they had found no other flag than the Orthodox
banner, and no other ideal than the _Domostróy_ and the extremely
Russian, but exceedingly harsh, period before Peter, they would have
passed for a curious party of transmogrified odd people who belonged to
another time. The strength and the future of Slavophilism lay in another
direction. It may be that their treasure was really hid in church
vessels of ancient workmanship, but its value was neither in the vessel,
nor in the form. They did not separate them at first.
To the historical recollections proper were added the memories of all
the related nations. Our Slavophiles assumed the sympathy for the
Western Panslavism to be identical in fact and in direction, forgetting
that there the exclusive nationalism was at the same time the lament of
a people that was oppressed by a foreign yoke. Western Panslavism was,
upon its appearance, regarded by the Austrian government as a
conservative step. It was evolved during the sad epoch of the Vienna
Congress. It was, in general, the time of all kinds of resurrections and
rehabilitations, the time of all kinds of Lazaruses,--fresh and stinking
ones. The Bohemian Panslavism arose by the side of the _Deutschthum_,
which was marching to the resurrection of the _happy_ days of Barbarossa
and the Hohenstaufens. The governments hailed this new tendency, and at
first encouraged the development of international hatred; the masses
again clung to their tribal interrelation, of which the knot was being
drawn tighter, and again were departing from the common demands for the
improvement of their existence; borders became ever more impassable, and
the tie and sympathy between nations were loosened. It goes without
saying that only weak, apathetic nations were allowed to awaken, and
that only so long as their activities were limited to scientific,
archeographic labours and etymological quarrels. In Milan and in Poland,
where nationality would not rest at grammar, it was held down with
spiked hands.
The Bohemian Panslavism incited the Slavic sympathies in Russia.
Slavism, or Russism, not as a theory, not as a doctrine, but as an
offended national feeling, as an indistinct recollection and correct
instinct, as a resistance to an exclusively foreign influence, has
existed since the shearing of the first beard by Peter the Great.
The resistance to the St. Petersburg terrorism of education has never
stopped: tortured and quartered and hung out on the spikes of the
Kremlin, to be shot at by Ménshikov and the other royal _jesters_ in the
shape of savage hunters, poisoned in the ravelin of the St. Petersburg
fortress, in the shape of Tsarévich Alexis, it appeared as the party of
the Dolgorúkis during the reign of Peter II., as the hatred of the
Germans under Birón, as Pugachév under Catherine II., as Catherine II.
herself, an Orthodox German, under the Prussian Holsteinian Peter III.,
as Elizabeth, who leaned on the Slavophiles of her day, in order to seat
herself on the throne (the people of Moscow were waiting for all the
Germans to be killed at her coronation).
All the dissenters are Slavophiles.
All the white and black clergy are Slavophiles of a different sort.
The soldiers who demanded the removal of Barclay de Tolly for his
foreign name were the predecessors of Khomyakóv and his friends.
The war of 1812 developed a strong feeling of national consciousness and
patriotism, but the patriotism of 1812 had no Orthodox, Slavic
character. We see it in Karamzín and Púshkin, and in Emperor Alexander
himself. It was practically an expression of that instinct of force
which all mighty nations feel when they are attacked by a foreign
people; and then it was a solemn feeling of victory, a proud
consciousness of a successful defence. But that theory was weak; in
order to love Russian history, the patriots transformed it according to
European models; they in general translated the Græco-Roman patriotism
from French into Russian, and did not go beyond the verse
_Pour un cœur bien né, que la patrie est chère!_
It is true, Shishkóv even then raved of reëstablishing the ancient
style, but his influence was limited. The real popular diction was used
only by the Frenchified Count Rostopchín in his proclamations and
appeals.
In measure as the war was being forgotten, this patriotism cooled down
and finally deteriorated, on the one hand, into a low, cynical flattery
of _The Northern Bee_, on the other, into the trivial patriotism of
Zagóskin,[9] who called Shúya,[10] Manchester and Shebúyev, a Raphael,
and who boasted of the bayonets and the expanse from the ice of Torneå
to the Tauric Mountains----
In the reign of Nicholas the patriotism was transformed into something
knout-like and official, especially in St. Petersburg, where this
uncouth tendency ended, according to the cosmopolitan character of the
city, in the _invention_ of a national hymn from Sebastian Bach, and, by
Prokópi Lyapunóv, from Schiller.
To cut loose from Europe, from enlightenment, and from revolution, which
kept him in terror ever since the 14th of December, Nicholas, on his
side, raised the banner of _Orthodoxy_, _autocracy_, and _nationality_,
which was worked out in the manner of a Prussian standard, and supported
by any thing and everything: by the uncouth novels of Zagóskin, the
uncouth iconography, the uncouth architecture, by Uvárov, by the
persecution of the Uniates, and by _The hand of the Almighty has saved
the fatherland_.[11]
The meeting of the Moscow Slavophiles with the Petersburgian
Slavophilism of Nicholas was a great misfortune for them. Nicholas took
refuge in nationality and Orthodoxy from revolutionary ideas. There was
nothing in common between them but words. Their extremes and
insipidities were all unselfishly insipid, without any relation
whatsoever to the Third Division,--which, of course, did not in the
least hinder their insipidities from being exceedingly insipid.
Thus, for instance, there passed through Moscow, at the end of the
thirties, the Panslavist Gaj, who later played some indefinite rôle as a
Croatian agitator and at the same time was near to Ban Jelačić.
Muscovites believe in foreigners in general; Gaj was more than a
foreigner, and more than one of their own,--he was both. He,
consequently, had no difficulty in engaging the sympathy of our Slavs
for the fate of their suffering Orthodox brothers in Dalmatia and
Croatia; an enormous subscription was taken up in a few days, and in
addition to that Gaj was given a dinner in the name of all the Servian
and Ruthenian sympathies. At the dinner one of the Slavophiles, who by
his voice and by his profession was more gentle than the rest, a man of
_red_ Orthodoxy, who, no doubt, was heated by the toasts for the
Montenegrin ruler, and for all kinds of great Bosnians, Bohemians, and
Slovaks, improvised a poem in which occurred the following not quite
Christian expression:
“I shall drink the blood of Magyars and of Germans.”
All who were still in their senses heard this phrase in disgust.
Fortunately the witty statistician Andrósov saved the bloodthirsty bard:
he jumped up from his chair, grabbed a fruit knife, and said:
“Gentlemen, pardon me, I shall leave you for a moment; it has just
occurred to me that my landlord, the old piano-tuner Diez, is a German;
I ’ll just run down to cut his throat, and I ’ll be back in a trice.”
A thunderous laughter drowned the indignation.
[9] Russian novelist of the beginning of the century.
[10] Manufacturing town in the Government of Vladímir; famous for its
raw sheepskins.
[11] A line in Ózerov’s tragedy _Dimítri Donskóy_ (see vol. i., p.
418).
Nikoláy Platónovich Ogarév. (1813-1877.)
Ogarév was born in the Government of Pénza, in the estate of his
father, where he was educated till his fourteenth year. He then
attended the Moscow University, but before he finished his course he
was arrested for singing some revolutionary songs, and was exiled to
his father’s estate. He later passed his life abroad, aiding Herzen in
his revolutionary propaganda. Though mainly known as a propagandist,
he excels even more as a poet. His tender verses remind of Lérmontov,
with whom he has much in common. Among his best poems are his
_Monologues_, _The Village Watchman_, _The Sea of Life_.
In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_ are given: _Notturno_, _The Old
House_, _The Village Watchman_, _The Child_, _Hidden Love_, and
_Death_; in Free Russia: by Charlotte Sidgwick, in vol. xi., No. 11,
_To Iskander_, in vol. xii., Nos. 6-7, _Summer_; by J. E. Lewis, in
vol. xii., Nos. 8-10, _The Commandment_; by Mary Grace Walker, in vol.
xii., No. 3, _A Prayer_.
TO ISKÁNDER[12]
In days of my boyhood so gentle and tender,
In days of my passionate youth in its splendour,
Through manhood, while slowly to age I surrender,--
Through all of my life and within my endeavour,
One word in my ears there is ringing for ever--
“Liberty! Liberty!”
Tormented by slavery, sad and dejected,
In alien lands all unknown and rejected,
I live but to utter that name long neglected;
Across the wide seas and the countries that sever,
One word to my motherland calling for ever--
“Liberty! Liberty!”
It came o’er the waves to the place of my wailing,
’Mid silence, at midnight,--a rumour assailing
My senses, through darkness and tempest prevailing--
I hear it! my heart can abandon it never,
That voice from my country that sounds on for ever--
“Liberty! Liberty!”
My heart, long accustomed to doubt in its yearning,
Sprang up as it throbbed with new ecstasy burning,
Like a bird from its cage to the wide world returning;
It sings a farewell to its prison for ever,
While solemn and clear rings the note of endeavour--
“Liberty! Liberty!”
In the dreams I behold, with the snows that surround him,
The peasant, long-bearded,--the glad news has found him,--
He shakes from his great limbs the fetters that bound him,--
And speaks the glad word, the unchanging for ever
Eternal,--the future can silence it never--
“Liberty! Liberty!”
But if there should chance,--if there came any reason,--
To fear for that Liberty, let her in season
Cry out, and I fly to encounter the treason;
And if from that uttermost struggle I never
Return, I can call with the cry “Live for ever,
Liberty! Liberty!”
It may be I die with the strangers around me,
Yet hope and belief in the future have found me,
O comrade! ere Death in his shackles has bound me;
That name do thou whisper, to last me for ever,
That name--of our love, of our faith and endeavour--
“Liberty! Liberty!”
--Transl. by Charlotte Sidgwick in Free Russia, vol. xi., No. 11.
[12] Pseudonym of Herzen; see p. 236.
MONOLOGUES
What I wish? What?---- Oh, there are so many wishes, and their host is
so eager for a sally, that at times it seems that by their inward
agitation my brain will burn and my breast will burst. What I wish?----
Everything, in all its fulness! I thirst to know, I yearn for deeds, I
still desire to love with senseless pining, I want to feel the whole
thrill of life!
I feel in secret all the wishes vain, and life is niggardly, and
inwardly I am feeble,--my striving will be silent and unanswered, and in
endeavours will my strength be wasted. I seem unto myself, oppressed by
suffering, a kind of miserable, puny fool, a creature lost in endless
space, wearing away in empty fermentation.
It is not given to us to embrace at once the spirit of eternity, and the
cup of life we quaff in swallows; what we have drunk we most
regret,--the empty bottom shows more and more. With every day the soul
feels heavier the aging, and it is more painful to remember, and more
terrible to wish, and to live appears bold recklessness,--but the pulse
cannot stop beating. And I live on in hopeless striving, and take upon
myself the cross of life, and all the fervour of my soul I bear in eager
motion, grasping and losing moments after moments----
And I wish all! What?---- Oh, there are so many wishes, and their host
is so eager for a sally, that at times it seems that by their inward
agitation my brain will burn and my breast will burst.
THE VILLAGE WATCHMAN
The night is dark, and clouds abound,
Appears the white snow everywhere;
The crackling frost pervades the ground,
And frigid is the atmosphere.
On either side the long, broad street
The peasants’ cottages are seen;
The solitary watchman’s feet
Are heard, as he moves on between.
Cold is he now; the hollow gale
Fills with violent blast the air;
The frost has touched his visage pale,
And whitened all his beard and hair.
Joy has fled from his gloomy brow,
He finds it hard to be alone;
Through the dark night, and blinding snow,
His song resounds with mournful tone.
By moonless nights he paces late,
Watching until the morn comes round;
His hammer upon the iron plate
Gives out a dreary, dismal sound.
And swaying ever to and fro,
The board prolongs its dreadful moan;
The heart dies down with feelings low,
And sorrow weighs it, lorn and lone.
--From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_.
Count Aleksyéy Konstantínovich Tolstóy. (1817-1875.)
Count Tolstóy’s youth was passed in the estate of his uncle in the
Government of Chernígov. He was early attached to the Russian legation
at Frankfurt, and travelled extensively in Germany, France, and
Switzerland. Upon his return to Russia, he settled in St. Petersburg
and devoted himself to literature. He at first wrote a series of
lyrics and some ballads which are perfect in technique but lack
animation. After the Crimean War he was attached to the Court, and his
renewed literary activity bore better fruits: the result of his
careful historical investigations was the novel _Prince Serébryany_
and the tragedy _The Death of Iván the Terrible_. There is no
historical novel in Russian that surpasses _Prince Serébryany_ in its
artistic setting and scrupulous adherence to facts. Tolstóy also wrote
two other tragedies that form a trilogy with _The Death of Iván the
Terrible_, but they are weaker in execution. Towards the end of his
life he wrote a number of ballads in the style of the ancient Bylinas,
of which _Alésha Popóvich_ is the best.
_Prince Serébryany_ has been translated three times: _Prince
Serebrenni_, translated by Princess Galitzine, 2 vols., London, 1874;
_Prince Serbryani_, an Historical Novel of the Times of Iván the
Terrible and of the Conquest of Siberia, by Jeremiah Curtin, New York
and London, [1892]; _The Terrible Czar_, translated by Capt. H. C.
Filmore, London, 1892 (and 1893, 1895). The following poems are to be
found in English translation: _Believe it not_, _The Scolding_, in
John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_; _Speys the Dwarf_, _The
Sinner_, in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_; in The Anglo-Russian
Literary Society, No. 21, by F. P. Marchant, _Prince Mikhailo Repnin_
and _Dearest Country_, No. 23, by N. Shishkoff, _You know I like to
seek_, _Into my soul so full of vain illusions_, _Where planets roll_,
and _Autumn_, No. 25, by H. Havelock, _The Kurgan_; in Free Russia, by
Elizabeth Gibson, in vol. xi., No. 3, _A Prayer_ and _The Convicts_,
in Nos. 6 and 7, _The Sorrows of Ages Departed_; in the Library of the
World’s Best Literature, reprint of J. Pollen’s _Believe it not_, and
_Renewal_, by Prince Wolkonsky.
FROM “PRINCE SERÉBRYANY”
Tsar Iván Vasílevich was praying. The perspiration was already rolling
down his face; the bloody marks, imprinted upon his high forehead by
former prostrations, were now more clearly defined by the new devotion.
Suddenly, a rustling sound in the room caused him to turn around. He saw
his nurse Onúfrevna.
His nurse was an old woman. She had been taken to the Upper Apartments
by Grand Prince Vasíli Ivánovich of blessed memory, she had served under
Eléna Glínski. Ioánn was borne in her arms, and in her arms did the
dying father bless him. They said of Onúfrevna that much was known to
her which nobody even suspected. During the minority of the Tsar, the
Glínskis had been afraid of her; the Shúyskis and Byélskis tried in
every way to gain her favour.
Onúfrevna discovered many hidden things through divination, and she was
never mistaken. She predicted of Prince Telepnév during his very
greatness,--Ioánn was then only four years old,--that he would die of
starvation. And so it happened. Many years had passed since then, but
that prediction was still fresh in the memory of old men.
It was now almost the tenth decade that Onúfrevna was ending. She was
bent nearly double; the skin of her face was so wrinkled that it
resembled tree bark, and as moss grows out on old bark, so grey tufts of
hair burst out of her chin. She had long ago lost her teeth; her eyes,
it seemed, could not see; her head shook convulsively.
Onúfrevna bent with her bony hand on a staff. She looked at Ioánn for a
long time, drawing in her seared lips, as if she were chewing or
muttering something.
“Well?” at last said the nurse with a dull, trembling voice, “are you
praying, father? Pray, pray, Iván Vasílevich! It will take a great deal
of praying to get forgiveness. If you had only your old sins upon your
soul! God is merciful, and He might have forgiven you! But you add every
day a new sin, and many a day even two or three of them.”
“Hush, Onúfrevna,” said the Tsar, rising, “you do not know what you are
saying!”
“I do not know what I am saying! Have I grown insane,--what?”
And the lifeless eyes of the old woman suddenly sparkled.
“What have you been doing at the table to-day?----Why did you poison the
boyár? You thought I did not know it! Well? Why do you frown? Wait, when
your hour of death will strike, just wait! Your sins will stick to you,
like a thousand thousand puds; they will pull you down to the bottom of
hell. And the devils will run up and will catch you on their hooks!”
The old woman again began to chew.
The fervent prayer had prepared the Tsar for pious thoughts. His
irritable imagination had more than once presented to him a picture of
the future chastisement, but his power of will vanquished the terror of
the torments beyond the grave. Ioánn assured himself that this fear and
his bites of conscience were provoked in him by the fiend of the human
race, in order to distract the anointed of God from his high purposes.
The Tsar opposed prayer to the cunning of the devil; but he often
succumbed to the cruel onrush of his imagination. Then despair took
possession of him as with iron claws. The unrighteousness of his acts
appeared in all its nakedness, and the abyss of hell yawned terribly
before him. But that lasted only a short time, Ioánn immediately
regretted his pusillanimity. In anger at himself and at the spirit of
darkness, he, to spite hell and to oppose his conscience, again started
upon his work of blood and villainy, and never did his cruelty reach
such dimensions as after an involuntary exhaustion.
Now the thought of hell, illuminated by the approaching storm and the
prophetic voice of Onúfrevna, stirred him through and through with a
feverish chill. He seated himself upon the bed. His teeth chattered
against each other.
“Well, father?” said Onúfrevna, softening her voice. “What is the matter
with you? Are you ill? That ’s it, you are ill! I have given you a good
fright! But you need n’t be frightened, father. Only repent, and stop
sinning. I, too, am praying for you, day and night, and now I shall pray
more than ever. Why should n’t I? I had rather forfeit heaven, if I
could gain forgiveness for you.”
Ioánn looked at his nurse,--she seemed to be smiling, but her stern face
was not lit up by a smile that was reassuring.
“Thank you, Onúfrevna, thank you. I am feeling easier; go, the Lord be
with you!”
“Yes, yes, easier! Your terror leaves you the moment you are consoled!
And you at once drive me away! The Lord be with me, you say! But you,
father, had better not count too much upon God’s long-suffering. Even
God’s patience will give way in your case. Beware, He will renounce you,
and Satan will rejoice and--plump! will enter into you. There, you have
begun to shake again! It will not hurt you to drink a glass of mulled
honey. Drink a glass, father! Your father, the kingdom of heaven be his,
used to drink mulled honey at night! And your mother, God grant her soul
rest, was fond of mulled honey. And it was with mulled honey that the
accursed Shúyskis poisoned her.”
The old woman became absent-minded. Her eyes were dimmed; she again
began to chew, all the time shaking her head.
Suddenly something knocked at the window. Iván Vasílevich shuddered.
The old woman made the sign of the cross with her trembling hand.
“Just see,” she said, “how it is raining! And it is beginning to
lighten! And there is also thunder, father; God have mercy upon us!”
The storm increased in fury, and soon the sky was disturbed by
uninterrupted peals of thunder and a continuous sheet of lightning.
Ioánn shuddered at every thunderclap.
“What a chill you have, father! Wait a moment, I ’ll have them make you
some mulled honey.”
“It is not necessary, Onúfrevna, I am well.”
“Well! Why, your face does not show it! You had better lie down on your
bed and cover yourself with a quilt. What a bed you have here! Nothing
but boards. What a queer notion! Is that proper for a Tsar? That is all
right for a monk, but you are not a monk!”
Ioánn did not answer. He was intent on listening to something.
“Onúfrevna,” he suddenly said in fright, “who is walking there in the
corridor? I hear somebody’s steps!”
“Christ be with you, father! Who should be walking now? It is your
imagination.”
“No, there is someone walking there! Somebody is coming here! Go and
look, Onúfrevna!”
The old woman opened the door. A cold wind burst into the room. Beyond
the door appeared Malyúta.
“Who is that?” asked the Tsar, leaping up.
“Your red dog, father,” answered the nurse, casting an angry glance at
Malyúta, “Gríshka Skurátov. How the accursed one has frightened me!”
“Lukyánych!” said the Tsar, made happy by the arrival of his favourite,
“you are welcome; where do you come from?”
“From the prison, sir. I was at the inquest, and I have brought the
keys.”
Malyúta bowed low to the Tsar and looked askance at the nurse.
“The keys!” grumbled the old woman. “They will flog you in the other
world with red hot keys, you Satan! Upon my word, you are Satan! Your
very face is that of a devil! Though somebody else may escape the
eternal fire, you won’t. You, Gríshka, will be licking hot pans for all
your calumnies! You, accursed one, will be boiling in pitch, remember my
word!”
Lightning illuminated the threatening woman, and she was terrible with
her uplifted staff and her sparkling eyes.
Malyúta himself felt a little uncomfortable; but Ioánn was emboldened by
the presence of his favourite.
“Pay no attention to her, Lukyánych,” he said, “know what you are about,
and don’t listen to women’s babble. But you, old fool, go away and leave
us!”
Onúfrevna’s eyes sparkled once more.
“Old fool?” she repeated. “You will think of me in the next world! All
your companions, Ványa, will receive their retribution, and they will
receive it even in this world, every one of them, Gryaznóy, Basmánov,
and Vyázemski. Each of them will receive his due, but this one,” she
continued, pointing with her staff at Malyúta, “this one will not
receive his due: there is no adequate punishment for him in this world;
his punishment is in the lowermost pit of hell; there a place is ready
for him, and the devils are waiting for him and rejoicing! And there is
a place there for you, too, Ványa,--a big, warm place!”
The old woman went out, shuffling her feet and making a noise with her
staff.
Ioánn was pale. Malyúta did not speak a word. The silence lasted quite a
while.
“Well, Lukyánych?” said the Tsar at last, “do the Kolýchevs confess?”
“Not yet, sir. But they will, or they won’t get off so easily from me!”
Ioánn asked for the details of the inquest. The conversation about the
Kolýchevs gave another direction to his thoughts. It appeared to him
that he might be able to fall asleep. He sent Malyúta away, lay down
upon his bed, and lost consciousness.
He was awakened as if by a sudden push. The room was weakly lighted by
the lamps before the images. A moonbeam passed through the low window
and glittered on the painted flourishes of the couch. A cricket chirped
behind the couch. A mouse nibbled somewhere at the wood.
Iván Vasílevich was again terrified amidst this silence.
Suddenly it seemed to him as though the floor was being raised and a
poisoned boyár looked out from underneath.
Such visions were common occurrences with Ioánn. He ascribed them to the
persecutions of the devil. To get rid of the apparition, he made the
sign of the cross.
But the apparition did not disappear, as it did formerly.
The dead boyár kept on looking at him awry. The eyes of the old man
bulged out, and his face was as blue as then, at dinner, when he drank
the cup sent him by Ioánn.
“That ’s again the devil’s incitement!” thought the Tsar. “But I will
not submit to the power of Satan, and I will crush the cunning of the
devil. Let God arise, and may His foes be dispersed!”
The dead man slowly rose from the floor and came nearer to Ioánn.
The Tsar wanted to cry out, but he could not. There was a terrible din
in his ears.
The dead man bowed before the Tsar.
“Hail, Iván!” spoke a hollow, unearthly voice. “I greet you, who have
destroyed an innocent man.”
These words re-echoed in the very depth of Ioánn’s soul. He did not know
whether he heard them from the apparition, or whether his own thought
found expression in sounds tangible to the ear.
Then another board was raised; underneath appeared the face of Daníla
Adáshev who had been executed by Ioánn four years before.
Adáshev, too, rose from the floor, bowed to the Tsar, and said:
“Hail, Iván! I greet you who have executed an innocent man!”
After Adáshev there appeared the boyár’s wife Maria who had been
executed together with her children. She rose from the floor, with her
five sons. They all bowed to the Tsar, and all said:
“Hail, Iván! I greet you!”
Then appeared Prince Kurlyátev, Prince Obolénski, Nikíta Sheremétev, and
other persons who had been killed or executed by Ioánn.
The room was filled with dead people. They all bowed low to the Tsar,
and all said:
“Hail, hail, Iván! I greet you!”
And there rose monks, hermits, nuns, all in black garments, all pale and
blood-covered.
And there appeared warriors who had been at Kazán with the Tsar. Upon
them gaped terrible wounds, that were not gained in battle, but were
inflicted by the executioner.
And there appeared maidens in torn garments, and young women with
suckling babes. The children stretched their bloody hands to Ioánn and
lisped:
“Hail, hail, Iván, who have made us innocent ones to perish!”
The room was ever more filled with apparitions. The Tsar could no longer
distinguish his imagination from reality. The words of the apparitions
were repeated in hundred-fold echoes, while the prayers for the dead and
the singing of the vigils resounded above Ioánn’s ears. His hair stood
on end.
“In the name of the living God,” he spoke, “if you are evil spirits sent
by the power of the devil,--perish! If you are, in truth, the souls of
those I have executed,--wait for the terrible judgment of the Lord! God
will judge us all!”
The dead people moaned and circled around Ioánn, like autumn leaves
driven by the whirlwind. The singing of the vigils sounded more
pitifully, the rain again beat against the window, and amidst the howl
of the wind, the Tsar thought he heard the sound of trumpets and a voice
calling:
“Iván, Iván, to the judgment, to the judgment!”
The Tsar cried out aloud. The sleeping guards ran from the adjoining
apartments into the bedroom.
“Rise,” cried the Tsar, “all who are asleep now! The last day has come!
The last hour has come! Let us to the church, all after me!”
The courtiers bestirred themselves. The large bell was rung. The
opríchniks who had just fallen asleep heard the familiar sound, and they
jumped up from their couches and hastened to dress themselves.
Many were feasting at the house of Vyázemski. They were sitting at the
wine cups and singing drinking songs. When they heard the sound of the
bell, they jumped up from their seats, donned black cloaks over their
rich garments, and covered their heads with high hoods. The whole palace
quarter came into motion. The church of the Mother of God was
brilliantly illuminated. The excited inhabitants rushed to their gates
and saw a multitude of lights that wandered in the palace from room to
room. Then the lights formed a long chain, and the procession meandered
along the outward corridors that connected the palace with the temple of
God.
All the opríchniks, who were dressed in the identical black cloaks and
hoods, carried pitch torches. Their light was wonderfully reflected upon
the carved pillars and wall decorations. The wind scattered the cloaks,
and the moonlight and the light of the torches was reflected on the
cloth, the pearls, and the costly stones. The Tsar marched in front,
dressed as a monk, and he beat his breast and called out, sobbing aloud:
“Lord, have mercy on me, sinful man! Have mercy on me, stinking dog!
Have mercy on my evil head! Pacify, O Lord, the souls of those who have
been innocently killed by me!”
Before the doors of the temple Ioánn fell down exhausted. The torches
illuminated an old woman that was sitting on the steps. She stretched
out her trembling hand to the Tsar.
“Rise, father!” said Onúfrevna. “I will help you. I have been waiting
for you for a long while. Come, Ványa, let us pray together!”
Two opríchniks held up the Tsar under his arms. He entered the church.
New processions, also in black cloaks, also in high hoods, were
hastening over the streets with lighted torches. The doors of the temple
swallowed ever new opríchniks, and the gigantic forms of the saints
looked at them with disfavour from the walls and the vault of the
church.
In the night, which had till then been speechless, there was suddenly
heard the singing of several hundred voices, and the sound of the bell
and the chant of the psalms were borne afar.
The prisoners awoke in their dungeons and, rattling their chains, began
to listen.
“The Tsar is reading the matins!” they said. “O Lord, soften his heart,
put mercy into his soul!”
Small children that were sleeping by the side of their mothers awoke in
terror and began to cry. Many a mother could not quiet her babe for a
long time.
“Hush!” she finally said. “Hush, or Malyúta will hear you!”
At the mention of Malyúta the child stopped crying and in its fright
pressed close to its mother, and during the stillness of the night there
were again heard the psalms of the opríchniks, and the continuous
ringing of the bell.
THE DEATH OF IVÁN THE TERRIBLE
ACT I. SCENE 2.
(_The Tsar’s bedchamber. Iván, pale and exhausted, in a black cassock,
is sitting in an arm-chair, beads in his hand. Near him, on a table,
lies the Cap of Monomákh; on the other side, on a stool, are the
royal vestments. Grigóri Nagóy is handing him a goblet._)
_Nagóy._ O Tsar! one drop of wine thou ’lt drink,
One drop refuse not. Thou these many days
Dost wear thyself out. All this time thy lips
Have nothing touched.
_Iván._ The body needs no food
When the soul is fed on anguish. Henceforth
Remorse shall be my food.
_Nagóy._ O mighty Tsar!
Is ’t true thou wouldst forsake us? How will it
With the Tsarítsa be? with the Tsarévich
Thy Dimítri?
_Iván._ God will not forsake them.
_Nagóy._ But who can hold the reins of government
Except thyself?
_Iván._ My mind’s edge is blunted;
My heart is faint; my hands are powerless
To hold the reins; already for my sins,
To th’ pagan God hath given victory,
Commanded me my throne that I give up
Unto another; my iniquities
Are more than sands o’ th’ sea: a cannibal--
Tormentor--lecher--church-profaner I:
The boundlessness of God’s long-suffering
Have I exhausted by the last misdeed.
_Nagóy._ O Tsar! Thou dost exaggerate thy sin;
Thy mind went not with it. Thou meantest not
To slay the Tsarévich: thy staff by accident
Did give the blow.
_Iván._ ’T is false! I knowingly,
On purpose, of free will did slay him. Or
Was I then mad, knew not where fell my blow?
No--I slew him purposely! On his back
He fell, bathed in his blood, aye, kissing
These my hands; and dying he forgave me
My monstrous sin, but I forgive myself
Such crimes dare not.
(_Speaks low._)
This very night to me
Appeared he, beckoned with bloody hand,
And, pointing to a cowl, he waved me on
With him along, unto the holy dwelling
By the White Lake, ev’n there where lie the relics
Of Cyril the Wonder-worker.
There loved I formerly alone to be
At times from out the tempests of the world;
There loved I, far from every care, to think
Of future rest, and the unthankfulness
Of man, and the malicious wiles of foes forget;
Mournfully sweet it was to me within
Some cell to rest me from the day’s exertions,
In evening hour to watch the clouds float by,
Hear but the winds sough, and the cries of gulls,
And of the lake the plash monotonous,
All silent there. There passion’s all forgotten.
There will I take the cowl, and it may be
By prayer, by life-long fasting and contrition,
That I shall merit pardon of my curse.
(_A silence._)
Go thou, and learn the reason that so long
Their conference lasts. Soon shall I know their sentence.
When come they with their Tsar? I ’ll lay on him
At once the regal mantle and the crown!
(_Exit Nagóy._)
The end of all! And hither am I brought
Along the lengthened path of majesty.
What have I met with on ’t? Sufferings alone.
E’en from my youth but knowing of unrest,
Now on the steed, amid the whistling shot,
The heathen subjecting, now in the Council
Struggling against the boyárs in revolt,
I see behind me but a long-drawn line
Of sleepless nights and troubled days.
I have not gracious to my people been--
No! I had never mastery o’er myself.
Father Sylvester, my good old tutor,
Would say to me, “Iván, take care! In thee
Satan would seat him. Open not thy soul
To him, Iván.” But I was deaf unto
The holy, aged man, and oped my soul
Unto the devil. No, no Tsar am I.
A wolf! a stinking cur! a tyrant!
My son I ’ve slain! Cain’s crime I have outpast!
A leper in soul and mind! The sores
That eat away my heart are countless!
O thou, God Christ, heal me, and forgive me
From my unheard-of foulness, and among
The choir of the blessèd count my soul.
--From _The Death of Iván the Terrible_, transl. by I. H.
Harrison.
THE KURGÁN
Where the broad level steppe lies bare
There stands a lonely mound,
Beneath a famous warrior erst
His latest honour found.
Three days the funeral feast endured,
Three days his meinie strove;
His wives the priests did offer there,
The war horse he did love.
But when at length he buried lay,
The noisy rites were o’er,
Singers foretold his fame to be,
Golden the lute he bore.
“O hero, yet thy deeds shall be
A mighty nation’s boast,
Nor shall thy loudly-sounded name
Through ages all be lost.
“Nay, should thy lofty tomb be laid
Low as this barren plain,
Yet far thy fame shall ever spread,
Honoured thy dust remain.”
And see! the years have passed amain,
And centuries have ranged,
Nations to nations given place,
Countries their fall have changed.
But still that mound its head lifts high,
Where the great chief doth rest,
Nor level with the ground it lies;
Still proudly soars its crest.
But through the years his glorious name
Was lost, nor lived till now.
Who was he, and what coronets
Graced his victorious brow?
What blood was it he shed in streams,
What towns in ashes laid?
What death was it he died, and when
Was his sepulture paid?
This lonely mound doth naught reply,
The warrior is forgot,
And games no more nor songs record
His once lamented lot.
Only the wild giraffe darts by,
Bounding across the plain,
Or locusts in a fluttering swarm
Settle, then on again.
Anon the cranes from high in air,
Their goal is now in sight,
Descend, shrill wayfarers, to rest
And preen for their last flight.
And there the timid jerboa leaps
When slowly dies the day,
Or rider high on mettled steed
Takes there his headlong way.
And, as across the sky they sail,
The clouds let drop their tears,
And lightly thence the passing breeze
The dust unheeded bears.
--Transl. by H. Havelock, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society,
No. 25.
Iván Aleksándrovich Goncharóv. (1812-1891.)
Goncharóv was born in Simbírsk where his father was a wealthy
merchant. His first ten years he passed in his home amidst the sloth
and indolence of the old Russian patriarchalism. In 1822 he was placed
in an educational institution at Moscow, and twelve years later he
graduated from the university. He began early to translate from the
French and from other languages, in which he was versed, but his first
original story appeared only in 1847. This novel, _A Usual Story_, at
once attracted attention by its realistic pictures of details, and by
the fine raillery at the Romantic extravagancies of its hero. In 1852
Goncharóv was invited by the Ministry of Marine to accompany an
expedition which was to circumnavigate the world on a mission to
Japan. The result of this voyage was his memoirs, _Frigate Palláda_,
which for brilliancy of description surpass any book in the Russian
language on travels. During his voyage he, at the same time, worked on
his great novel, _Oblómov_, for which he had laid the plan long
before. It was published in 1858 and created a sensation unlike any
other previous production in Russia. The country was on the eve of the
emancipation, and everybody was filled with the optimism that the
native indolence was soon to come to an end, when Goncharóv with
marvellous plasticism generalised that very indolence in his hero, and
made him succumb to it: everybody who read the book recognised
himself, and trembled lest he should also become a victim of Russian
fatalism. Goncharóv’s later novel, _The Declivity_, was less
successful.
In English there are some extracts translated from _Oblómov_ in the
Library of the World’s Best Literature and in Garnett’s Universal
Anthology.
FROM “OBLÓMOV”
“Go ahead with the description of the ideal of your life---- Well, good
friends around you: what next? How would you pass your days?”
“Well, I should rise in the morning,” began Oblómov, placing his hands
back of his head, and an expression of rest came over his face: he was
in thought already in the country. “The weather is fine, the sky
deep-blue, and there is not a cloud,” he said. “One side of my house is
turned with its balcony to the east, facing the garden and fields, the
other towards the village. While waiting for my wife to get up, I should
put on my smoking-jacket and should saunter through the garden, to
breathe the morning evaporations; there I should find the gardener, and
we should together water the flowers, and lop the bushes and trees. I
cull a bouquet for my wife. Then I take a bath in the bath-tub or in the
river; I return, the balcony is open; my wife has on a blouse and a
light morning cap that barely stays on the head and that will be wafted
away by the slightest breeze. She is waiting for me. ‘Tea is ready,’ she
says. What a kiss! What tea! What a restful armchair! I seat myself at
the table: upon it are toast, cream, fresh butter----”
“Then?”
“Then I don a comfortable coat or jacket, and lose myself with my wife
in an endless, deep avenue of trees: we walk softly, lost in meditation,
or think aloud, dream, count the moments of happiness, like the beating
of the pulse, and listen to the beating and fainting of the heart; we
look for sympathy in Nature----and by degrees we reach a brook or a
field---- The river barely splashes; the ears of corn wave with the
wind. ’T is warm----we seat ourselves in the boat, my wife rows, barely
raising the oars----”
“Yes, you are a poet, Ilyá!” Stolz interrupted him.
“Yes, a poet of life, for life is poetry. It is the privilege of people
to distort it! Then we can enter the greenhouse,” continued Oblómov,
himself becoming intoxicated with the ideal which he was depicting. He
extracted from his memory ready, long-present pictures, and therefore he
spoke with warmth, and without stopping. “We look at the peaches, at the
grapes,” he said: “We tell what to send to table; then we return, take a
light breakfast and wait for friends---- There is a note for my wife
from some Márya Petróvna, with a book or music; or a pine-apple has been
sent us as a present, or in our own garden a monster melon has ripened,
and we send it to some good friend, for to-morrow’s dinner, and we go
there ourselves---- In the meantime everything is busy in the kitchen;
the cook is running around in an apron and cap as white as snow: he puts
down one pot, takes up another; there he stirs, here he begins to mix
the dough; there he pours out some water--the knives are rattling--they
are chopping some spinach--there they turn the ice-cream freezer---- ’T
is a pleasure to look into the kitchen before dinner, to open a
saucepan, sniff, take a glance at the making of the cakes, and beating
of the cream. Then to lie down on the sofa; the wife reads aloud
something new; we stop, quarrel a bit---- But there are guests coming,
say, you and your wife.”
“Bah, you are getting me married, too?”
“By all means! Two, three friends more,--the same old faces. We take up
the unfinished conversation of yesterday. Then come jokes, or there
falls upon us an eloquent silence, a meditation,--not on account of the
loss of some place, not on account of some affair of the Senate, but
from the fulness of satisfied desire,--a meditation of enjoyment---- You
will hear no philippics, with foam upon the lips, against an absent
person; you will not notice a glance cast at you that promises you the
same the moment you have closed the door. You will not dip your bread in
his salt cellar whom you do not love, who is not good. In the eyes of
the interlocutors you will perceive sympathy, in their jests, a sincere,
harmless laughter---- Everything from the soul! What is in the eyes, is
in the words and hearts. After dinner--a mocha, a Havana cigar on the
terrace----”
“You are painting me there the same that has been with our fathers and
grandfathers.”
“No, not the same,” retorted Oblómov, almost offended. “How can you say
so? Do you suppose my wife would be preserving jams and mushrooms? Would
she be counting skeins, and looking after the homespun? Would she be
boxing the servant girls’ ears? Don’t you hear?--There would be music,
books, piano, fine furniture!”
“Well, and you yourself?”
“I myself would not be reading last year’s newspapers, would not travel
in a kolymága, would not eat noodles and goose meat, and would have my
cook taking lessons in the English club or at the ambassador’s.”
“And then?”
“Then, when the heat would subside, I should send a carriage with the
samovár, with a dessert, to the birch forest, or else, to the field, on
the newly mown grass, I should have carpets spread between the hayricks,
and there we should be staying in bliss until cold hash and beefsteak.
The peasants are returning from the field, with their scythes over their
shoulders; there creeps by a waggon with hay that conceals the vehicle
and the horse; above, a peasant’s cap, adorned with flowers, and a
child’s head stick out of the hay; there, a crowd of barefooted old
women, with sickles, talk aloud---- Suddenly they notice their masters,
and they grow silent, and bow low.
“’T is damp in the field, and dark; a mist, like an inverted sea, hovers
over the rye; the horses jerk their shoulders and stamp their hoofs: ’t
is time to go home. In the house the fires are lit; in the kitchen there
is a mighty rattle of knives; there is a pan of mushrooms, cutlets,
berries----there is music----Casta diva--Casta diva!” sang out Oblómov.
“I cannot mention with indifference Casta diva,” he said, after singing
the beginning of the cavatina; “how that woman weeps her heart away!
What melancholy there is in those sounds---- And no one around her knows
anything---- She is alone---- The secret weighs heavily upon her; she
confides it to the moon----”
“Do you like that aria? I am very glad: Ólga Ílinski sings it
beautifully. I ’ll introduce you to her,--what a voice, what singing!
And what a charming child she herself is! However, maybe I am a
prejudiced judge: I have a small weakness for her---- But, don’t let me
distract you,” Stolz added: “Go ahead with your description!”
“Well,” continued Oblómov, “what more?----yes, that ’s all---- The
guests scatter to the side buildings, to the pavilions; the next day
they go in different directions: one to fish, another to hunt; a
third,--well, just sits down----”
“How, with nothing in his hands?” asked Stolz.
“What do you want? Well, with a handkerchief, if you please. Why, would
you not like to pass such an existence?” asked Oblómov, “or, is n’t that
an existence?”
“All my life that way?” asked Stolz.
“To your grey hair, to the grave. This is life!”
“No, it is not.”
“How not? What is lacking here? Just consider that you would not see a
single poor, suffering face, no care, not a single question about the
Senate, exchange, shares, reports, audience at the minister’s, ranks,
increase of salary. Nothing but soul-felt conversations. You would never
have to move from one house to another,--that in itself is worth
something! And you say that is not life?”
“That is not life!” Stolz repeated stubbornly.
“What is it then according to you?”
“That is----” Stolz fell to musing and was trying to find a proper
expression for such a life, “I should call it---- Oblómovism!” he
finally said.
“Ob-lóm-ov-ism!” Oblómov uttered slowly, wondering at the strange word,
and pronouncing it by syllables: “Ob-lóm-ov-ism!”--he looked strangely
and fixedly at Stolz. “What, then, in your opinion, is the ideal of
life? What is not Oblómovism?” he asked timidly, without passion. “Do
not all strive for the same thing that I am dreaming of? Say yourself,”
he added more boldly, “is not the aim of all our running, passions,
wars, commerce, politics the obtaining of peace, is it not a striving
for that ideal of a lost paradise?”
“Your very Utopia is of the Oblómov kind,” retorted Stolz.
“Everybody is in search of rest and quiet,” Oblómov defended himself.
“Not all, and you yourself did not look for that in life ten years ago.”
“What did I look for?” Oblómov asked, perplexed, as he mentally
transferred himself into the past.
“Try to recall it. Where are your books and translations?”
“Zákhar has put them somewhere,” answered Oblómov, “they are somewhere
in the corner here.”
“In the corner!” Stolz said reproachfully. “In this same corner lie your
intentions ‘to serve, while strength lasts, because Russia needs hands
and heads to exploit its inexhaustible resources’--I am quoting your
words: ‘to work, in order to rest more sweetly; and to rest means to
live with the other, aristocratic, artistic side of life, the life of
artists, poets.’ Has Zákhar stored away all these intentions also in the
corner? Do you remember, you had intended, after having studied from
books, to travel in foreign countries, in order to know and love yours
better? ‘All life is thought and work,’ you used to repeat then: ‘an
unnoticed, dark, but incessant work, and to die with the consciousness
of having done your work’--well, in what corner does all that lie now?”
“Yes----yes----” said Oblómov, restlessly following every word of
Stolz’s, “I do remember, I really did----it seems---- That ’s so!” he
suddenly exclaimed, as the past returned to him. “Why, Andréy, we had
made up our minds to crisscross Europe, to walk through all of
Switzerland, to burn our feet on Mount Vesuvius, to go down to
Herculaneum. We almost went insane! How many foolish things!----”
“Foolish things!” Stolz repeated reproachfully. “Did you not say in
tears, as you looked at the engravings of Raphael’s Madonnas, at
Correggio’s Night, at the Apollo Belvedere: ‘Lord! Shall I really never
be able to gaze at the originals and be dumb with terror at the thought
that I am standing before the productions of Michael Angelo, Titian, and
that I tread the soil of Rome? Shall I pass my life seeing these
myrtles, cypresses, and orange trees in hothouses, and not in their
native home? Not to breathe the air of Italy, not to drink in the azure
of its sky!’ And what superb fireworks you used to send out of your
head. Foolish things!”
“Yes, yes! I remember,” said Oblómov, as he lost himself in the past.
“You once took me by my hand and said to me: ‘Let us promise not to die
before having seen all that!----”
“I remember,” continued Stolz, “how you once brought me a translation
from Say, with a dedication to me upon my birthday: I still have the
whole translation. How you shut yourself up with the teacher of
mathematics, and wanted by all means to find out what good there was in
knowing circles and squares, and then you gave it up before you were
half way through, without having found it out! You began to study
English--and you did not learn it! And when I made a plan of a journey
abroad, and asked you to come to see me at the German universities, you
jumped up, embraced me, and solemnly gave me your hand: ‘I am with you,
Andréy, everywhere with you,’ those are all your words. You have always
been something of an actor. Well, Ilyá? I have been twice abroad; after
having been crammed full of our native wisdom, I sat modestly on the
student benches at Bonn, Jena, Erlangen, then I studied Europe like my
estate. But one might say, a journey is a luxury and not all are able or
obliged to make use of that means; what about Russia? I have seen Russia
up and down. I work----”
“Sometime you ’ll stop working,” Oblómov remarked.
“I shall never stop. Why should I?”
“When you have doubled your capital,” said Oblómov.
“Not when I increase it fourfold.”
“What is all this unrest for,” he said after a silence, “if it is not
your aim to provide for the future and to retire later for a rest?”
“Country Oblómovism!” said Stolz.
“Or by service to gain importance and position in society, and then in
honourable indolence to enjoy a well-deserved rest----”
“Petersburg Oblómovism!” exclaimed Stolz.
“When is one to live, pray?” Oblómov replied with annoyance to Stolz’s
remarks. “Why should one worry a whole life away?”
“For work’s sake, and for nothing else. Work is the image, contents,
element, and aim of life, at least, of my life. You have driven work out
of life: what is it like now? I ’ll try to raise you, maybe, for the
last time. If you will be staying here after that, with your Tarántevs
and Aleksyéevs, you will go to perdition, and be a burden to yourself.
Now or never!” he concluded.
Oblómov listened, fixing his excited eyes upon him. His friend had, so
to say, placed a mirror before him, and he became frightened as he
recognised himself.
“Do not scold me, Andréy, but really help me!” he began with a sigh. “I
am tormented myself by it, and if you had seen or heard me only to-day,
how I am digging my own grave and lamenting over myself, you would never
have had the courage to blame me so much. I know and understand all, but
I have no strength and no will. Give me your will-power and mind, and
lead me where you wish. I shall probably go with you, but alone I will
never move from the spot. You are saying the truth: ‘Now or never!’
Another year, and it will be too late!”
“Is it you, Ilyá?” said Andréy. “I remember you as a slender, lively
boy, as you walked every day from Prechístenka to Kúdrino; there, in the
garden----you have not forgotten the two sisters? You have not forgotten
Rousseau, Schiller, Goethe, Byron, which you used to carry to them, and
you took away from them the novels of Cottin, Janlis----you put on such
importance before them, you wanted to purify their taste?----”
Oblómov jumped up from his bed. “What, you remember that too, Andréy?
That is so! I dreamt with them, whispered hopes of the future to them,
developed plans, ideas, and--feelings too, secretly from you, lest you
should ridicule me. All that is dead, it was never repeated! Where has
it all gone to, and why has it been extinguished? Incomprehensible!
There have been no storms, no violent perturbations with me; I have not
lost anything; no yoke burdens my conscience; it is as pure as glass; no
stroke has killed ambition in me. God knows why all that has gone!” He
sighed. “Do you know, Andréy? There has never burnt in my life, neither
a redeeming, nor a destructive fire! It has never resembled a morning
upon which gradually fall colours and fire until it is changed into day,
as with others; and then it flames up, and boils, moves in the brilliant
midday, and then softly, very softly, becomes paler and paler, and
naturally and gently dies out towards evening. No, my life began with
the extinction! Strange to say, it is so! From the first moment that I
have been conscious of myself, I have felt that I am already being
extinguished. I began to go out when I was writing documents in the
chancery; I was going out when, later, I read in books truths that I did
not know what to do with in life; I was going out among my friends, as I
listened to the disputes, gossips, malicious teasings, ill-minded and
cold prattle, emptiness, and as I looked at the friendship that was
supported by aimless and unsympathetic meetings; I was going out in the
languid and indolent saunterings along the Névski Prospect, among racoon
furcoats and beaver collars,--at evening entertainments, receptions,
where I was gladly received as a possible prospective bridegroom; I was
going out and trifling away life and reason when I migrated from the
city to the country, and from the country back to the Gorókhovaya
street, measuring spring by the arrival of oysters and lobsters, autumn
and winter by reception days, summer by excursions, and life in general
by an indolent and restful dreaming, like the rest---- Even my ambition,
what did I waste it upon? To order a garment from a well-known tailor,
in order to find my way into a certain house, in order that Prince P.
should press my hand. And ambition is the salt of life! What has become
of it? Either I did not understand this life, or it is good for nothing,
and I knew and saw nothing better, and no one showed it to me. You used
to appear and disappear like a comet, brilliantly, swiftly, and I forgot
all about it, and went out----”
Stolz no longer answered with a careless banter Oblómov’s speech. He
listened and kept a grim silence.
“You told me lately that my face was not quite fresh, that it was
crushed,” continued Oblómov. “Yes, I am a threadbare, old, worn-out
coat, but not from the effect of the climate, and labour, but because
for twelve years light was imprisoned within me; it sought an exit, and
only burnt the prison, and did not get its liberty, and went out. Thus,
my dear Andréy, have passed twelve years of mine, and I lost the desire
to awaken.”
“Why did you not tear yourself away and run somewhere, instead of
perishing in silence?” Stolz asked impatiently.
“Whither?”
“Whither? If you could do nothing better, with your peasants to the
Vólga: there is more motion there, there are there some kind of
interests, aims, work. I should have gone to Siberia, to Sitka----”
“You prescribe such dreadfully strong measures!” Oblómov remarked
languidly.
“I am not alone in that. There is Mikháylov, Petróv, Seménov, Aleksyéev,
Stepánov---- You can’t count them all: our name is legion!”
Stolz was still under the influence of that confession and he was
silent. Then he sighed. “Yes, much water has flowed since then!” he
said. “I will not leave you as you are; I ’ll take you away from here,
first abroad, and then into the country: you will grow a little thinner,
you will stop pining away, and we shall find some work for you----”
“Yes, let us get away from here!” the words escaped from Oblómov.
“To-morrow we will apply for a passport abroad, then we will pack up----
I will not leave you, do you hear, Ilyá?”
“It is always to-morrow with you!” retorted Oblómov, as though coming
down from the clouds.
“You would prefer, ‘Don’t put off for to-morrow what you can do to-day?’
What a hurry! It is too late now,” Stolz added. “In two weeks we shall
be far away----”
“You talk of two weeks, my friend! How so? Let us consider it properly
and get ready---- I ’ll have to get some carriage----say rather in three
months.”
“Talk of a carriage! We shall travel to the border in a stage coach, or
in a steamer as far as Lubeck, that will be much more convenient. There
we shall find railroads in many places.”
“And what about the house, and Zákhar, and Oblómovka? Some kind of
arrangements will have to be made,” Oblómov defended himself.
“Oblómovism, Oblómovism!” said Stolz, laughing; then he took a candle,
wished Oblómov good-night, and went to bed. “Now or never!--Remember!”
he added, as he turned back to Oblómov and closed the door behind him.
“Now or never!” were the first threatening words he thought of as he
awoke in the morning. He rose from his bed, walked three times up and
down the room, and looked into the sitting-room where Stolz was sitting
and writing. “Zákhar!” he called out, but he did not hear him jumping
down from the oven bed. Zákhar did not make his appearance,--Stolz had
sent him to the post-office. Oblómov walked up to his dusty table, sat
down, picked up a pen, dipped it in the inkstand, but there was no ink
in it, looked for some paper, but there was none. He fell to musing, and
mechanically began to draw with his finger in the dust, then he looked
down to see what he had written: it turned out to be “Oblómovism.” He
hurriedly wiped away the writing with his sleeve. That word he had been
dreaming of in the night: it was written in flaming letters upon the
wall, as at Belshazzar’s feast. Zákhar arrived and when he found Oblómov
not in his bed, he dimly looked at his master, wondering why he should
be on his legs. In that dull glance of astonishment was written:
“Oblómovism!” “One single word,” thought Ilyá Ilyích, “but how
poisonous!----”
Zákhar took, as usual, the comb, brush, and towel, and stepped towards
his master to fix his hair. “Go to the devil!” Oblómov exclaimed angrily
and knocked the brush out of Zákhar’s hands, and Zákhar himself dropped
the comb on the floor.
“Would you not like to lie down again?” asked Zákhar. “If so, I shall
fix the bed for you.”
“Bring me ink and paper,” answered Oblómov.
He fell to musing over the words: “Now or never!” As he listened
inwardly to this despairing appeal of reason and willpower, he
consciously weighed the little willpower that was left to him, whither
he would carry it, into what he would put that paltry remnant. After
having pondered over it painfully, he seized the pen, dragged a book out
of the corner, and in one hour wanted to read, write, and think all that
he had neglected to read, write, and think in ten years. What was he to
do now? To go ahead, or to remain? This Oblómov question was of more
import to him than Hamlet’s. To go ahead,--that would mean at once
doffing his comfortable dressing-gown, not only from the shoulders, but
from the soul and mind; together with the cobweb on the walls to sweep
away the cobweb from the eyes, and regain eyesight! What first step
should be made for this? Where begin? “I do not know--I cannot--no, I am
begging the question, I do know, and---- And here is Stolz by my side;
he will tell me. What will he tell me? ‘In a week,’ he will say, ‘you
must sketch a detailed instruction for your plenipotentiary and send him
into the village. Get your Oblómovka mortgaged, buy some more land, send
a plan of new buildings, give up your house, procure a passport, and go
abroad for six months, to get rid of your surplus fat, to throw off the
weight, to refresh the soul with the atmosphere of which you have
dreamed long ago with your friend, to live without a dressing gown,
without Zákhar and Tarántev, to put on your own socks and take off your
own boots, sleep only at night, travel where all travel, on railroads,
steamboats, and then---- Then to settle in Oblómovka, to find out what
sowing and threshing is, why peasants are poor or well-to-do, walk over
the fields, go to elections, to the factory, to the mill, the docks. At
the same time you are to read newspapers, books, and become excited why
the English have sent a warship to the East----’ That ’s what he will
say! That ’s what is meant by going ahead, and thus it is to be all my
life! Farewell, poetical ideal of life! That is some kind of a
blacksmith shop, not life! There is in it an eternal fire, hammering,
heat, din---- But when is one to live? Would it not be better to stay?
To stay means to put on a shirt over all, to hear the patter of Zákhar’s
feet as he jumps down from his couch, to dine with Tarántev, to think
less about anything, never to finish the “Voyage to Africa,” to grow
peacefully old in these chambers, at the house of Tarántev’s
ladyfriend.”
“Now or never!” “To be or not to be!” Oblómov was about to rise from his
chair, but his foot did not at once find its way into the slipper, and
he sat down again.
Nikoláy Aleksándrovich Dobrolyúbov. (1836-1861.)
Dobrolyúbov was the most powerful of critics belonging to the school
of Byelínski. In the short period of three years in which he devoted
himself exclusively to criticism, he produced four large volumes of
minute analyses of the intellectual and social movements at the end of
the fifties. His most famous essay is _What is Oblómovism?_ in which
he places all the heroes of previous novels in the same category with
the hero in Goncharóv’s story. Dobrolyúbov was born in Nízhni-Nóvgorod
as the son of a poor priest. He studied at a Seminary and at the
Pedagogical Institute at St. Petersburg, struggling all the time
against want. He practised much asceticism, and kept strict account of
himself and his mental evolution by means of a diary. He later
transferred this asceticism and scrupulous self-examination to his
literary work.
WHAT IS OBLÓMOVISM?
It was remarked long ago that all the heroes of the most noted Russian
stories and novels suffer from not seeing any aim in life and from not
finding any proper occupation for themselves. On account of this they
feel ennui and a dislike for all kinds of work, thus presenting a
striking similarity to Oblómov. Indeed, open, for example, _Evgéni
Onyégin_, _The Hero of Our Time_, _Who is to be Blamed_, _Rúdin_, or
_Useless Men_, or _Hamlet of Shchigróv County_,[13]--in every one of
them you will find traits that are literally identical with those in
Oblómov----
----One feels the breeze of a new life when, after reading Oblómov, one
stops to think what it is that has called forth this type in literature.
It cannot be ascribed solely to the personal talent of the author and to
the breadth of his views. Great talent and the broadest and humanest
conceptions are to be found also in the authors who have produced the
former types, mentioned above. But the fact is that since the appearance
of the first of these, Onyégin, up to the present, thirty years have
passed. What was then in the embryo, what was then whispered in
indistinct words, has now assumed a definite, concrete form, has been
proclaimed openly and aloud. The trite phrase has lost its meaning;
there has arisen in society itself the need for actual work.
Béltov[14] and Rúdin, men with really high and noble tendencies, not
only could not grasp the necessity, but could not even imagine the near
possibility of a terrible, mortal conflict with actualities that
oppressed them. They entered into a deep unknown forest, walked over a
dangerous bog, saw under their feet various reptiles and serpents, and
climbed a tree,--partly to see whether they could not discover a road
somewhere, partly to rest and for a time at least to save themselves
from the danger of sinking into the mire or being stung. The people who
followed them waited for them to say something, and looked at them with
respect as at people who had taken the lead. But these leaders saw
nothing from the elevation to which they had climbed: the forest was
very extensive and dense.
However, while climbing the tree, they have scratched their faces,
wounded the feet, spoiled their hands. They suffer, they are fatigued,
they must rest themselves, after having fixed a comfortable place upon
the tree. It is true, they do nothing for the common good, they have
discovered no way, and they say nothing. Those who stand beneath them
must, without their aid, clear for themselves a road through the forest.
But who will dare to throw a stone at these unfortunate men in order to
make them fall down from their height in which they have settled after
such difficulties, having in view the public good? They have the
sympathy of the others, they are not even required to take part in the
clearing of the forest; another work fell to their lot, and they did it.
If it led to nothing, it is not their fault. Every one of the former
authors could look at his Oblómov hero from that standpoint, and he was
right. To this was also added the circumstance that the hope of finding
a way out from the forest upon the road was long maintained by the whole
crowd of the travellers, just as their confidence was long maintained in
the far-sightedness of the leaders who had climbed the tree.
But by degrees the affair becomes clearer, and it takes a different
turn. The leaders have taken a liking to the tree: they very eloquently
discuss the ways and means of issuing from the bog and from the forest.
They have found on the tree some kind of fruit which they enjoy, after
throwing down the shell. They invite a few of the select from the crowd
to come to them, and these climb up and stay there, not to look for the
road, but to eat the fruit. They are now Oblómovs in the true sense. The
poor travellers who stand below sink in the mire, serpents sting them,
reptiles frighten them, and branches strike their faces. At last, the
crowd decides to be doing something, and want to get back those who have
lately climbed the tree; but the Oblómovs keep silent and glut
themselves on the fruit. Then the crowd turns to its former leaders and
begs them to come down and to help them in the common work. But the
leaders again repeat the old trite phrases that it is necessary to find
the road, but that it is useless to think of clearing the forest.
It is then that the poor travellers see their mistake, and turn their
backs on them and say: “Sure enough, you are all Oblómovs!” And they
begin to work with a vim and without cessation: they cut down the trees,
make a bridge with them through the bog, lay out a path, kill the
serpents and reptiles that are in their way, and no longer pay any
attention to those clever fellows with their strong natures, those
Pechórins and Rúdins, on whom they had all their dependence before and
whom they so admired. At first the Oblómovists look calmly at the common
movement, but later, as is their wont, they lose courage and begin to
cry:
“Oh, oh! Don’t do that; leave off!” they cry as they notice that the
tree upon which they are sitting is about to be cut down. “Consider, we
might be killed, and then there will perish with us all those beautiful
ideas, all those elevated sentiments, all those humane tendencies, that
eloquence, that pathos, that love for everything beautiful and noble,
which ever lived in us. Stop, stop! What are you doing?”
But the travellers have heard these beautiful phrases a thousand times,
and they continue their work, without paying any attention to them. The
Oblómovists have another chance to save their reputation: let them climb
down from the tree, and fall in with the work of the others. But, as
usual, they are at a loss what to do. “How do you expect us all of a
sudden?” they repeat in despair, and they continue to hurl their futile
curses against the stupid crowd that has lost respect for them.
The crowd, however, is right. If it has become conscious of the
necessity for actual work, it can be of no consequence to it whether
Pechórin stands before it, or Oblómov. We do not assert that Pechórin
would act in the given circumstances precisely like Oblómov; these very
circumstances cause him to develop in an entirely different direction.
But the types which a mighty genius creates are lasting: there are even
now some men living who represent, so to say, a chip of Onyégin,
Pechórin, and so forth, not in the form in which they might have
developed in other circumstances, but just exactly as they are
represented by Púshkin, Lérmontov, and Turgénev. But in the social
consciousness they are evermore changed into Oblómov.
It cannot be said that this change is already accomplished: no, even now
thousands of persons are wasting their time in talking, and thousands of
others are ready to regard this talking as work. But that this
transformation is beginning, is proved by the type of Oblómov which
Goncharóv has created. Its appearance would be impossible, if the
conviction had not grown ripe in at least a small part of society that
those quasi-talented natures that caused so much delight in former days
are quite insignificant. Formerly they were cloaked by all kinds of
mantles, adorned with all kinds of coiffures, and they attracted to
themselves by all kinds of talents. But now Oblómov appears before us
divested of his adornments, just as he is, uncommunicative, removed from
a beautiful pedestal to a soft divan, covered with an ample morning
robe, instead of a mantle. The question, What is he doing? Wherein is
the meaning and aim of his life? is put directly and clearly, and it is
not obscured by side questions. This is so, because the time for social
labour has at last come or is just coming. For this reason we say that
we see in Goncharóv’s novel a sign of the time.
Let us, indeed, see how the point of view has changed which was held in
regard to those cultivated and glib accumbents who in former days were
taken for real social workers.
Here is before you a young man; he is very handsome, agile, and
cultured. He makes his entry in fashionable society and he has success
there. He drives to the theatre, to balls and masquerades; he dresses
and dines superbly; he reads books and writes very orthographically. His
heart is agitated only by the routine of fashionable life, but he has
also an idea about higher questions. He likes to talk of passions,
Of prejudices centuries old
And fateful mysteries of the tomb.
He has a few honourable rules; he is capable
Of changing to light tenant pay
The yoke of old manorial labour;
he is capable of not taking advantage of the inexperience of a girl whom
he does not love; he is capable of not ascribing any special value to
his worldly successes. He stands so far above the fashionable society
which surrounds him that he has arrived at the consciousness of its
inanity; he is even able to leave that society and to settle in the
country; only, not knowing what work to find for himself, time weighs
heavily upon him. Having nothing to do, he quarrels with his friend and
frivolously kills him in a duel. A few years later he again makes his
appearance in society and falls in love with a woman whose love he
himself rejected before, because he would have been compelled to
renounce his roving life for her. You recognise Onyégin in this man. But
take a good look at him: it is Oblómov.
There is another man before you, with a more passionate soul, with a
broader egoism. He has, as it were, all that by nature which forms an
object of care to Onyégin. He does not worry about his toilet and
apparel; he is a man of the world without all that. He does not need to
pick his words and to shine with his tinsel knowledge: without all that
his tongue is as sharp as a razor. He actually despises men, well
knowing their weaknesses; he really knows how to conquer the hearts of
women, not for a short moment, but for a long time, often for ever.
Everything that hampers his way he knows how to remove or destroy. He
has only one misfortune: he does not know whither to go. His heart is
empty and cold to everything. He has experienced everything, and even
while a young man all pleasures which one can get for money palled on
him; he also loathes the love of worldly beauties, because it has given
nothing to his heart; he is tired of the sciences, because he sees that
neither glory nor happiness depend upon them, that ignoramuses are the
happiest people, and that glory is a matter of success; dangers of war
soon wearied him, because he saw no sense in them and because he readily
got used to them.
In fine, even the sincere, pure love of a country girl whom he really
likes annoys him: he does not find even in her any satisfaction for his
impulses. But what impulses are they? Whither do they draw him? Why does
he not give himself over to them with the whole power of his soul? It is
because he himself does not understand them and does not take the
trouble of thinking what to do with his power of soul. So he passes all
his life in making witticisms at the expense of fools, in disquieting
the hearts of inexperienced maidens, in mixing up with the affairs of
others’ hearts, inviting brawls, showing bravado in trifles, fighting
without any provocation---- You recollect that this is the history of
Pechórin, that with almost such words he explains his character to
Maksím Maksímych. Please, do take a good look at him: you will see
Oblómov even in him.
Here is another man who walks upon his path with greater
self-consciousness. He not only understands that he is endowed with
great power, but he also knows that he has a great purpose. It seems he
even suspects what that purpose is and where it is to be found. He is
noble, honest, though he frequently does not pay his debts; he discusses
with ardour not trifles, but higher questions; he assures us that he is
ready to sacrifice himself for the good of humanity. In his mind all
questions are solved, everything is brought into a living, harmonious
connection; by his mighty speech he entices inexperienced youths so
that, hearing him, they feel that they have been called to something
great.
Now, what does he spend his life on? On beginning everything and not
finishing it, on scattering himself in all directions, on following up
things with ardour, without accomplishing them. He falls in love with a
girl who finally tells him that, in spite of her mother’s prohibition,
she is ready to belong to him; whereat he answers: “Heavens! so your
mother does not give her consent! What a sudden shock! Lord, how soon!
There is nothing to be done,--we must submit.” And that is a real
picture of all his life. You already know that this is Rúdin. No, that
’s again Oblómov. If you will take a good look at this person, and will
place him face to face with the demands of contemporary life, you will
yourself come to this conclusion.
All these people have this in common: they have no work in life as their
vital necessity, as their heart’s holiness, their religion, that might
organically grow up with them so that to deprive them of it would mean
to take their life away. Everything is external with them, nothing has
any roots in their natures. They may be doing something if compelled by
outward necessity, just as Oblómov made calls wherever Stolz took him,
bought music and books for Ólga, and read what she made him read. But
they have not their souls in the work which accident imposes upon them.
If they were offered gratis all the external comforts which their labour
gives them, they would gladly turn away from their work. By dint of his
Oblómovism, the Oblómov official will stop going to his office, if that
would not interfere with getting his salary and his promotions. The
warrior will make a vow not to touch his arms, if he is offered the same
conditions, provided they permit him also to keep his beautiful uniform
which is very useful upon certain occasions. The professor will abandon
his lectures, the student his studies, the writer his authorship, the
actor will not appear on the stage, the artist will break his chisel or
his palette, to express myself in eloquent style, if they can see their
way of obtaining for nothing that which they now get by work.
They talk of higher aims, of the consciousness of moral obligations, of
being imbued with the interests of society,--but investigate it all, and
you will find that it is nothing but words and words. Their sincerest,
most heartfelt aim is their aim for rest, for the morning gown, and
their very activity is nothing else but _an honourable morning gown_
(the expression does not belong to me), with which they cover their
inanity and apathy. Even the most cultivated people, such as possess a
vivid nature and a warm heart, in practical life very easily depart from
their ideas and plans, very readily make their peace with the reality
that surrounds them, though they do not cease speaking of it as low and
contemptible. This means that everything of which they speak and dream
is, in their case, foreign and external; but in the depth of their soul
is rooted one dream, one ideal,--a most undisturbed rest, quietism,
Oblómovism. Many go even so far as not to be able to imagine a man
working for the love of it, from predilection----
----If I now see a landed proprietor discussing the rights of humanity
and the necessity for the development of the individual,--I know from
his first words that he is an Oblómov.
If I meet an official who complains of the intricacy and laboriousness
of the official routine,--he is an Oblómov.
If I hear from an officer tirades on the weariness of parades and bold
discussions of the uselessness of slow steps, etc., I have no doubt that
he is an Oblómov.
When I read in the periodicals liberalising sallies against malfeasance,
and expressions of joy that at last that which we have been hoping and
wishing for has been done,--I think that these must be correspondences
from Oblómovka.
When I am in a circle of cultivated people who feel warmly for the needs
of humanity and who for a series of years have with undiminished zeal
been telling the same anecdotes, or at times even new ones, about
bribe-takers, about oppressions, about illegalities of all kinds,--I
involuntarily feel that I am transferred to old Oblómovka.
Stop these people in their noisy disputations and say to them: “You say
that so and so is wrong; well, what is to be done?” They do not know.
Propose the simplest means to them, and they will say: “But pray, why so
suddenly?” You may be sure they will say that, because Oblómovs cannot
speak otherwise. Continue your conversation with them and ask them:
“What do you intend to do?” They will give you the same answer which
Rúdin gave to Natálya: “What is to be done? Of course, submit to fate.
What is to be done? I know too well how bitter, how hard and intolerable
it is, but judge yourself”----and so forth. You will get nothing else
out of them, because upon all of them is the stamp of Oblómovism.
Who will, at last, stir them from the spot with the almighty word
“Forwards!” of which Gógol has dreamed so much and for which Russia has
been waiting so long and so yearningly? So far there is no answer to
this question, neither in society, nor in literature. Goncharóv, who
knew how to grasp and represent to us our Oblómovism, could not help
paying his tribute to the universal delusion which still holds strong
sway over our society; he decided to bury Oblómovism and to hold a
funeral sermon over it. “Farewell, old Oblómovka, you have lived your
day,” he says with the lips of Stolz, but he tells an untruth. All
Russia that has read or will read Oblómov will not agree with it. No,
Oblómovka is our real country; its owners are our educators, its three
hundred Zákhars are ever ready for our services. In every one of us
there is a goodly part of Oblómov, and it is still too early to write
the inscription on our tomb.
[13] These works are by the following authors: Púshkin, Lérmontov,
Gértsen, Turgénev, Saltykóv, Turgénev.
[14] Hero in _Who is to be Blamed?_
Iván Sergyéevich Turgénev. (1818-1883.)
Turgénev is the most noted of the novelists who began their literary
career in the forties. He was brought up in the estate of his father,
in the Government of Orél. His early impressions were extremely
unpleasant: his father belonged to the brutal type of the old landed
proprietors, and his mother developed, after the death of her husband,
similar repellent characteristics. Thus Turgénev, who was himself
possessed of a soft and refined nature, received an early bias against
the whole institution of serfdom. In 1833 Turgénev entered the St.
Petersburg University, and five years later he went to Berlin to
finish his education. He had tried writing poetry before, but he met
with little success. Upon his return to Russia he wrote _Parásha_, a
novel in verse, in which the Romantic incident of the story is
tempered by a goodly admixture of realism. It at once attracted
attention, and Turgénev was fairly launched into literature. But he
became a power in literature only at the end of the forties when he
began to publish his series of sketches from the life of the peasants
under the name of _Memoirs of a Hunter_: their effect was tremendous:
it was the first time that the public read sympathetic stories about
the serfs, and they did a great deal to hasten the emancipation. The
government looked awry at this tendency of Turgénev’s novels, and when
he, in 1852, wrote a eulogistic essay on Gógol, who had just died, he
was banished to his estate. Upon his release, he went abroad where he,
with short interruptions, passed the rest of his days. Then followed
that series of brilliant novels, _Dimítri Rúdin_, _Faust_, _A Nest of
Gentlefolk_, which made him famous throughout Europe. In 1862 appeared
his _Fathers and Sons_. In this novel he attempted to give a picture
of the new tendencies in Russian society. But he had been too long
away from Russian surroundings, and so he has been blamed for not
having grasped the positive characteristics of the younger generation.
His later productions are tinged by pessimism, which finds its most
pronounced expression in his _Poems in Prose_.
The following translations of Turgénev’s works have been published:
_After Death_, in Modern Age, 1883. _Annals of a Sportsman_, extracts
in _Photographs from Russian Life_, in Fraser’s Magazine, and in
Graham’s Magazine, 1854; _Russian Life in the Interior_, London, 1855;
_Annals of a Sportsman_, translated from the French by F. P. Abbott
(Leisure Hour Series, No. 164), New York, 1885; _Tales from the
Note-book of a Sportsman_, translated by E. Richter, London, 1895.
_The Antchar_, in Galaxy, 1873. _Asya_, under title _Assja_, in
Galaxy, 1877; _Annouchka_, translated from the French by F. P. Abbott,
Boston, 1884. _Daughter of Russia_, translated by G. W. Scott (Seaside
Library), New York, 1882. _Desperate_, in Cosmopolitan, 1888. _Dimitri
Roudine_ (Leisure Hour Series), New York, 1873 (reprinted from Every
Saturday, 1873). _The Dream_, in Home Journal, 1878. _Fathers and
Sons_, translated by E. Schuyler, New York, 1867, London, 1888, and
(Leisure Hour Series and Seaside Library) New York, 1883; _Fathers and
Children_, New York, 1883. _Faust_, in Galaxy, 1872. _First Love_, and
_Punin and Baburin_, translated by S. Jerrold, London, 1884. _Hamlet
and Don Quixote_, translated by J. Král and P. Durdík, in Poet Lore,
vol. iv. _The Idiot_, London, 1887, and in Temple Bar, 1870. _A Leaf
of the Steppes_, in London Society, and in Living Age, 1873; _Nobleman
of the Steppes_, in Scribner’s Monthly, 1877. _The Living Mummy_, in
Scribner’s Monthly, 1876. _Liza_, translated by W. R. S. Ralston,
London, 1869 and 1884, and New York, 1872. _Mumu_, and _Diary of a
Superfluous Man_, translated by H. Gersoni, New York, 1884. _Novels_
(containing _Dimitri Roudine_,--_Fathers and Sons_, translated by E.
Schuyler, _Liza_, translated by Ralston, _On the Eve_, by Turner,
_Smoke_, by West, _Spring-floods_, by S. M. Butts, _A Leaf of the
Steppes_, by W. H. Browne), 6 vols., New York, 1874-5. _On the Eve_,
translated by C. B. Turner, London, 1871, and New York, 1873. _Poems
in Prose_, Boston, 1873; _Senilia, Poems in Prose_, in MacMillan’s
Magazine, vol. xlix, 1887, and Eclectic Magazine, vol. cii, 1887;
_Senilia, Poems in Prose_, translated by S. J. Macmullan, Bristol,
[1890]. _The Priest’s Son_, in Lippincott’s, 1877. _Punin and
Baburin_, translated by G. W. Scott (Seaside Library), New York, 1882.
_The Ruffian_ (?) (Overland Library, No. 13), New York, 188-. _Smoke,
or, Life at Baden_, London, 1868; _Smoke_, translated from the French,
by W. F. West, New York, 1873, and London, 1883. _Song of Triumphant
Love_ (Seaside Library), New York, 1883. _The Sorcerer_, in Appleton’s
1870; under title _How Russians meet Death_, in Temple Bar, and in
Living Age, 1887. _Spring Floods_, translated by E. Richter, London,
1896. _Strange Adventure of Lieut. Yergunof_, in Galaxy, 1877. _Tales
from a Stormy Night_, New York, 1891. _Three Meetings_, in
Lippincott’s, 1875. _An Unfortunate Woman_, also _Assya_, translated
by H. Gersoni (Standard Library, No. 142), New York, 1886; _The
Unfortunate One_, translated by A. R. Thompson, London, 1888.
_Vassilissa_, in Romance, 1892. _Virgin Soil_, translated from the
French by T. S. Perry (Leisure Hour Series), New York, 1877, and
London, 1883--translated by A. W. Dilke, London, 1878 and 1879.
_Visions_, in Galaxy, 1872, and in Cornhill, and Living Age, 1880.
_The Watch_, in Lippincott’s, 1876, and in _The Bridal March_, from
the Norwegian of Björnson, and _The Watch_, translated by J. E.
Williams, London, 1893. _Works_ (containing _Dimitri Roudine_,
_Fathers and Sons_, _Liza_, _Smoke_, and _Virgin Soil_), 5 vols.,
London, 1889. There is also a complete set of his _Works_, translated
from the Russian by Mrs. Garnett, London, and New York, 1894-99.
FROM “FATHERS AND SONS”
----Arkádi stepped towards his uncle, and he once more felt the touch of
his perfumed moustache upon his own cheeks. Pável Petróvich seated
himself at the table. He was dressed in an elegant morning gown after
the English fashion; his head was embellished by a small fez. This fez
and the carelessly tied neckerchief hinted of the freedom of country
life; but the stiff collar of the shirt, which was not white, but
coloured, as is proper for the morning toilet, stuck with customary
inexorability against the clean-shaven chin.
“Where is your new friend?” he asked Arkádi.
“He is not at home. He generally rises early and goes away. The main
thing is, not to pay any attention to him: he does not like ceremonies.”
“Yes, that is evident.” Pável Petróvich began leisurely to spread some
butter on his bread. “Is he going to stay here long?”
“That depends. He has stopped here on his way to his father’s.”
“Where does his father live?”
“In our Government, some eighty versts from here. He has a small estate
there. He used to be an army surgeon.”
“Well, well, well! That ’s why I kept on asking myself: ‘Where have you
heard that name Bazárov’? Nikoláy, it seems to me there was a surgeon by
the name of Bazárov in papa’s division.”
“I think there was.”
“That ’s right. So that surgeon is his father. Hm!” Pável Petróvich
smoothed his moustaches. “Well, and Mr. Bazárov himself, what is he?”
asked he with deliberation.
“What Bazárov is?” Arkádi smiled. “If you want, uncle, I ’ll tell you
what he really is.”
“Do me the favour, dear nephew.”
“He is a nihilist.”
“What?” asked Nikoláy Petróvich, and Pável Petróvich raised up his knife
with a piece of butter at the end of the blade, and remained immovable.
“He is a nihilist,” repeated Arkádi.
“Nihilist,” muttered Nikoláy Petróvich. “That is from the Latin _nihil_,
nothing, so far as I can judge; consequently that word designates a man
who--who acknowledges nothing?”
“Say, who respects nothing,” Pável Petróvich interrupted him, starting
again to spread his butter.
“Who looks at everything from the critical point of view,” remarked
Arkádi.
“Is not that the same?” asked Pável Petróvich.
“No, not the same. A nihilist is a man who bows to no authorities, who
accepts not a single principle on faith, no matter with what respect
that principle be surrounded.”
“And do you call that good?” Pável Petróvich interrupted.
“It depends, uncle. It ’s good for some, and very bad for others.”
“I declare. Well, that, I see, is beyond us. We are of the older
generation; we assume that without principles (Pável Petróvich
pronounced this word softly, in the French fashion, Arkádi, on the
contrary, pronounced it hard, with a decided accent on the first
syllable), without principles taken, as you say, on faith, it is
impossible to take a step, or breathe. _Vous avez changé tout cela._ God
grant you health and the rank of general,[15] but we shall only take
pleasure in looking at you, gentlemen----what do you call them?”
“Nihilists,” Arkádi said distinctly.
“Yes. Formerly there used to be Hegelists, and now there are nihilists.
Let us see how you are going to exist in the vacuum, in an airless
space. But now, please ring the bell, brother Nikoláy Petróvich; it is
time for me to drink my cocoa.”
----For some moments silence reigned upon the terrace. Pável Petróvich
sipped his cocoa, and then he suddenly raised his head.
“There is the nihilist coming to honour us with his presence,” he said
half aloud.
There was really Bazárov, crossing the beds in the garden. His linen
ulster and trowsers were smeared with mud; a prickly swamp plant
surrounded the band of his old round hat; in his right hand he held a
small bag, and in the bag were crawling living things. He rapidly
approached the terrace and said, nodding: “Good-morning, gentlemen!
Excuse me for being late to tea. I shall be back at once; I just want to
find a place for my captives.”
“What have you there, leeches?” asked Pável Petróvich.
“No, frogs.”
“Do you eat them or raise them?”
“For experiments,” indifferently answered Bazárov and went into the
house.
“You see, he is going to cut them up,” remarked Pável Petróvich. “He
does not believe in principles, but in frogs.”
Arkádi looked with pity at his uncle, and Nikoláy Petróvich stealthily
shrugged his shoulders. Pável Petróvich felt himself that he had made an
infelicitous remark, and began to talk about the estate and the new
manager who had come to him a few days before to complain of Fomá’s
having become useless on account of his reckless ways.
----Bazárov returned, seated himself at the table, and began hastily to
drink his tea. Both brothers looked at him in silence, and Arkádi threw
stealthy glances, now upon his father, now upon his uncle.
“Did you have a long tramp?” finally asked Nikoláy Petróvich.
“You have a small swamp near the aspen grove. I there scared up some
five snipes. Arkádi, you ’ll have some shooting there.”
“Are you not a hunter?”
“No.”
“I understand your specialty is physics?” asked Pável Petróvich in his
turn.
“Yes, physics; natural sciences in general.”
“They say the Teutons have of late made great progress in this field.”
“Yes, the Germans are in this our teachers,” Bazárov answered
carelessly.
Pável Petróvich had used the word Teutons, instead of Germans, in irony,
but no one took notice of it.
“Have you such a high opinion of the Germans?” spoke Pável Petróvich
with affected politeness. He began to feel a secret irritation.
Bazárov’s extreme plainness ruffled his aristocratic nature. That son of
a surgeon not only was not abashed, but he answered abruptly and as if
against his will, and in the sound of his voice there was something
harsh, nay, impudent.
“Their learned men are a fine lot.”
“Yes, yes. Well, I suppose, you have not the same flattering conception
of the Russian savants.”
“I guess you are right.”
“That is a very laudable self-abnegation,” retorted Pável Petróvich,
straightening himself, and throwing his head back. “But how is it Arkádi
Nikoláevich told a little while ago that you did not acknowledge any
authorities? Do you not believe them?”
“Why should I acknowledge them? And what should I believe? If I am told
a fact, I agree with it, that ’s all.”
“Do the Germans always tell facts?” spoke Pável Petróvich, and his face
assumed a disinterested, distant expression, just as if he had retired
to some cloudy height.
“Not all,” answered Bazárov with a slight yawn, evidently not wishing to
continue the discussion.
Pável Petróvich looked at Arkádi, as if to tell him: “I must say, your
friend is a polite chap.”
“As for me,” he spoke again with some effort, “I, sinful man, am not
particularly fond of the Germans. Not to mention the Russian Germans: we
all know what kind of birds they are. But I cannot stomach even the
German Germans. Those of the former generations were not half so bad;
they then had, well, a Schiller, or let us say, a Goethe----Brother
thinks quite favourably of them. But now there is such a procession of
chemists and materialists over there----”
“A decent chemist is twenty times more useful than any poet,” Bazárov
interrupted him.
“Indeed!” spoke Pável Petróvich, barely raising his eyebrows, as if
falling asleep. “So you do not acknowledge art?”
“The art to make money, or no more hemorrhoids!” exclaimed Bazárov with
a contemptuous smile.
“Yes, yes. How you please yourself to jest! So you deny all that? Very
well. So you believe only in science?”
“I have already reported to you that I believe in nothing. What is
science anyway, science in general? There are sciences, as there are
trades and professions; but science in general does not exist at all!”
“Very well, sir. Well, and do you assume the same negative attitude in
regard to all the other institutions, generally accepted in human
existence?”
“What is this, an inquest?” asked Bazárov.
Pável Petróvich grew slightly pale. Nikoláy Petróvich thought it
necessary to take part in the conversation.
“We will discuss this matter more thoroughly some other time, dear
Evgéni Vasílich; we shall then get your view, and we shall tell you
ours. I, for my part, am very glad to hear that you busy yourself with
the natural sciences. I have heard that Liebig has made some remarkable
discoveries in regard to the fertilisation of the fields. You could aid
me in my agronomic work by giving me some useful advice.”
“I am at your service, Nikoláy Petróvich; but what business have we with
Liebig? We must first learn the ABC, and then we may take to books; we
have not yet put our eyes on A.”
“I should say you _are_ a nihilist,” thought Nikoláy Petróvich. “Still,
let me in case of necessity have recourse to you,” he added aloud. “But
for the present, brother, I think it is time for us to go and have a
talk with the steward.”
Pável Petróvich rose from his chair.
“Yes,” he said, without looking at anyone, “it is a misfortune to live
five years in the country, away from great minds! You will just become a
round fool. You are trying not to forget what you have learned, and,
before you know it, it turns out that it is all nonsense, and you are
told that clever people no longer busy themselves with such trifles, and
that you, sir, are an old-fashioned night-cap. What is to be done? It
seems the younger generation is really more clever than we are.”
Pável Petróvich slowly turned upon his heels and walked away leisurely.
Nikoláy Petróvich went after him.
“Say, is he always that way?” Bazárov coolly asked Arkádi, when the door
was closed behind the two brothers.
“Listen, Evgéni, you have treated him altogether too brusquely,”
remarked Arkádi. “You have offended him.”
“I am not going to pamper these county aristocrats! It is with them
nothing but egotism, manners of society lions, dandyism! Well, he ought
to have continued his activities in St. Petersburg, if he is built that
way---- However, God be with him! I have found a fairly rare specimen of
a water beetle,--_Dysticus marginatus_, do you know it? I ’ll show it to
you!”
----They began to talk about one of the landowners of the neighbourhood.
“A scoundrel, a snob of an aristocrat,” calmly remarked Bazárov who had
met him in St. Petersburg.
“Permit me to ask you,” began Pável Petróvich, and his lips quivered,
“according to your conception, the words ‘scoundrel’ and ‘aristocrat’
mean one and the same thing?”
“I said ‘snob of an aristocrat,’” remarked Bazárov, lazily sipping his
tea.
“Just so. But I suppose you are of the same opinion about aristocrats,
as you are about snobs. I regard it my duty to inform you that I do not
share that opinion of yours. I dare say, I am known as a liberal man and
one who loves progress, and it is for that very reason that I respect
aristocrats, that is, real aristocrats. Remember, dear sir” (at these
words Bazárov turned his eyes to Pável Petróvich), “remember, dear sir,”
he repeated with acrimony, “the English aristocrats. They do not yield
an iota from their privileges, and therefore they respect the rights of
others. They demand the fulfilment of obligations towards them, and
therefore they fulfil their own obligations. The aristocracy gave
England its freedom, and the aristocracy supports it.”
“We have heard that old song before,” replied Bazárov. “But what do you
wish to prove by it?”
“I wish to prove by that there thing, dear sir” (when Pável Petróvich
got angry, he purposely said “that there” and “this here,” although he
knew full well that grammar did not permit any such forms. In this
oddity one might perceive a reminiscence of the traditions of the days
of Alexander I. The somebodies of those days were in the habit of using
“that there” and “that yer,” in the rare cases when they spoke their
native language, as much as to say: “We are native Russes, and at the
same time dignitaries, who have a right to disdain scholastic rules”),
“I wish to prove by that there thing that without the feeling of one’s
own dignity, without respect to oneself,--and in an aristocrat these
feelings are developed,--there is no secure foundation of society--_bien
public_--the social structure. Individuality, dear sir,--that is the
main thing: human individuality must be as strong as a rock, for
everything rests upon it. I know very well, that you please yourself to
find my habits, my toilet, in fine, my cleanliness, ridiculous, but it
all flows from my feeling of self-respect, from my feeling of duty, yes,
sir, yes, sir--duty. I am living in the country, in the wilderness, but
I do not let myself fall--I respect the man in me.”
“Permit me to say, Pável Petróvich,” spoke Bazárov, “you claim to
respect yourself, and yet you sit with folded hands; what good is that
to the _bien public_? It would be better, if you respected yourself
less, and did more.”
Pável Petróvich grew pale. “That is an entirely different question. It
is not my duty to explain to you now, why I am sitting with folded
hands, as you please to express yourself. I only want to say that
aristocratism is a principle, and in our days only immoral and brainless
people can live without principles. I told Arkádi so on the next day
after his arrival, and I repeat it to you. Am I not right, Nikoláy?”
Nikoláy Petróvich nodded his head.
“Aristocratism, liberalism, progress, principles,” Bazárov was saying in
the meantime. “Just think how many foreign and useless words! A good
Russian would not take them gratis.”
“Then what does he want, according to you? Listening to you, one might
conclude that we are living beyond the pale of humanity, beyond its
laws. Why, sir, the logic of history demands----”
“What do you want to do with that logic? We are getting along without
it.”
“How so?”
“We just do. I hope you do not need any logic in order to put a piece of
bread into your mouth, when you are hungry. What good to us are all
these abstractions?”
Pável Petróvich waved his hands.
“After that I do not understand you. You insult the Russian nation. I
can’t understand how one can fail to acknowledge principles and rules!
By dint of what do you act?”
“I told you before, uncle, that we do not acknowledge any authorities,”
interposed Arkádi.
“We act by dint of what we regard as useful,” spoke Bazárov. “At the
present time the most useful thing is negation,--we negate.”
“Everything?”
“Everything!”
“What? Not only art, poetry----but----it is terrible to say it----”
“Everything,” repeated Bazárov with inexpressible calm.
Pável Petróvich stared at him. He had not expected that, while Arkádi
even blushed with joy.
“But permit me to ask you,” again said Pável Petróvich, “you deny
everything, or, to express myself more correctly, you destroy
everything--but is it not necessary to build up again?”
“That is not our affair. First, the place has to be cleared.”
“The contemporary condition of the people demands it,” Arkádi added with
dignity. “We must execute these demands; we have no right to devote
ourselves to the satisfaction of our personal egotism.”
This last phrase evidently displeased Bazárov: it smacked of philosophy,
that is, of Romanticism, for Bazárov called philosophy Romanticism; but
he did not think it necessary to contradict his young disciple.
“No, no!” exclaimed Pável Petróvich in a sudden passion. “I do not wish
to believe that you, gentlemen, properly understand the Russian nation,
that you are the representatives of its needs, its aims! No, the Russian
nation is not as you represent it to yourselves. It reveres tradition,
it is patriarchal, it cannot live without faith----”
“I will not dispute that,” interrupted Bazárov; “I am even willing to
admit that you are right in this.”
“And if I am right----”
“And yet it proves nothing.”
“That ’s it, it proves nothing,” repeated Arkádi with the confidence of
an experienced chess player who, foreseeing the apparently dangerous
move of his antagonist, does not become in the least uneasy.
“How does it not prove anything?” muttered Pável Petróvich in
wonderment. “So you are going against your nation?”
“What of it, if I do? People imagine that when it thunders the prophet
Elias is riding in a chariot over the heavens. Well? Shall I agree with
them? Besides, they are Russians, and am I not myself a Russian?”
“No, you are not a Russian, after what you have just told me! I cannot
acknowledge you as a Russian.”
“My grandfather was a ploughman,” replied Bazárov with supercilious
pride. “Ask any of your peasants, in whom he will quicker recognise a
countryman of his, in you or me? You do not even know how to talk with
him.”
“But you speak with him and despise him at the same time.”
“Why not, if he deserves contempt! You find fault with my tendency, but
who told you that it is accidental in me? that it is not provoked by the
same national spirit that you are championing?”
“Well, of what good are the nihilists?”
“It is not for you to decide whether they are any good or not. Don’t you
regard yourself useful?”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please no personalities!” exclaimed Nikoláy
Petróvich, rising from his chair.
Pável Petróvich smiled and, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder,
compelled him to sit down again.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I will not forget myself, by dint of that very
feeling of dignity that the gentleman, the doctor, makes so light of.
Permit me,” he turned again towards Bazárov, “you probably think that
your doctrine is something new. But you imagine that in vain. The
materialism which you preach has been in vogue more than once, and it
has always proved itself insufficient----”
“Again a foreign word!” interrupted Bazárov. He began to feel annoyed
and his face assumed a coarse coppery colour. “First of all, we preach
nothing; that is not our custom----”
“Then what are you doing?”
“I ’ll tell you what we do. In former days, not so long ago, we used to
say that the officials take bribes, that we have no roads, no commerce,
no regular justice.”
“Yes, yes, you are accusers, I think that is what you call it. I agree
with many of your accusations, but----”
“Then we came to the conclusion that to prate, nothing but prate, about
our sores is not worth the trouble, that it only leads to triteness and
doctrinarianism; we discovered that our wise men, the so-called leaders
and accusers, were good for nothing, that we were busying ourselves with
nonsense, were talking of art, unconscious creative power,
parliamentarism, of legalism, and the devil knows of what not, when we
ought to have talked of the daily bread, when we were oppressed by most
vulgar superstition, when all our commercial companies burst only
because there was a dearth of honest men, when the very liberty with
which the Government is concerned would hardly do us any good, because
our peasants would as lief rob themselves, if only they could fill
themselves with brandy in the tavern.”
“Ah,” Pável Petróvich interrupted him, “ah! You have convinced yourself
of all that, and so you have decided not to do anything seriously?”
“And we decided not to undertake anything,” grimly repeated Bazárov. He
suddenly felt irritated for having entered into a dispute with that
gentleman.
“And only to scoff?”
“To scoff.”
“And that is called nihilism.”
“And that is called nihilism,” again repeated Bazárov, but this time
with special rudeness.
Pável Petróvich slightly closed his eyes.
“Ah, that ’s the way!” he said with a strangely calm voice. “Nihilism is
to help all misery, and you--you--are our deliverers and heroes. Yes.
But why do you hold others in honour, say, those very accusers? Or do
you not prate like the rest?”
“You may accuse us of anything else, but not of that,” said Bazárov
through his teeth.
“Well? You act, don’t you? You are getting ready to act?”
Bazárov did not answer. Pável Petróvich shuddered, but he immediately
controlled himself.
“Hm!--Act, break--” he continued. “But how are you going to break, not
knowing for what purpose?”
“We break, because we are a force,” remarked Arkádi.
Pável Petróvich glanced at his nephew and smiled.
“Yes, force does not give any accounts of itself,” said Arkádi
straightening himself out.
“Miserable man!” lamented Pável Petróvich. He was absolutely unable to
hold himself any longer. “If you only thought what you are supporting in
Russia by your despicable phrase? No, that would make an angel lose his
patience! Force! A wild Calmuck, a Mongolian has force too, but of what
good is it to us? We treasure civilisation, yes, sir, yes, sir, dear
sir, we treasure its fruits. Don’t tell me that these fruits are
worthless. The last latherer, _un barbouilleur_, a fiddler who gets five
kopeks for an evening, are more useful than you, because they are the
representatives of a civilisation, and not of a rude Mongolian force!
You regard yourselves as leaders, but you ought to pass your days in a
Calmuck tent! Force! Remember, gentlemen of force, that there are only
four and a half of you, and there are millions of others who will not
permit you to tread under foot their most sacred beliefs and who will
crush you.”
“If they will crush us, then that is our destiny,” spoke Bazárov. “Only
you are slightly off. We are not as few as you imagine.”
“What? You think in earnest you will be able to stand out against a
whole nation?”
“You know, it was a kopek candle that caused the conflagration of
Moscow,” replied Bazárov.
“Yes, yes. First it is an almost satanic pride, and then contemptuous
scoffing. That ’s what the young generation is carried away with, that
’s what conquers the inexperienced hearts of boys! Just look at them:
one of them is sitting by your side; he almost worships you,--look at
him. (Arkádi turned away and frowned.) This plague has spread far and
wide. I have been told that our artists won’t visit the Vatican in Rome,
that they regard Raphael almost as a fool, because, don’t you see, he is
an authority; but they themselves are impotent and barren to nausea;
their fancy does not rise above a _Girl at the Fountain_, try as they
may! And the girl is horribly painted at that. In your opinion they are
a fine lot, are they not?”
“In my opinion,” retorted Bazárov, “Raphael is not worth a copper penny,
and they are not better than he.”
“Bravo! Bravo! Listen, Arkádi! That ’s the way modern young men must
express themselves! When I come to think of it, why should they not
follow you! Formerly young men had to study; they did not like to pass
for ignoramuses, and so they worked, even against their will. But all
they have to say now is: “Everything in the world is bosh!” and that ’s
all there is to it. The young people are happy. And really, formerly
they were nothing but blockheads, but now they have suddenly turned
nihilists.”
“There, your vaunted feeling of your personal dignity has played you
false,” phlegmatically remarked Bazárov, while Arkádi flamed up and his
eyes glistened. “Our discussion has gone too far---- It seems it would
be better to cut it short altogether. I will then be ready to agree with
you,” he added, rising, “when you will show me one single institution in
our present existence, social or domestic, which does not call for a
complete and merciless negation.”
“I will show you millions of such institutions,” exclaimed Pável
Petróvich, “millions! For example, the village commune.”
A cold smile contorted Bazárov’s lips.
“When it comes to the commune,” he said, “you had better have a talk
with your brother. He, it seems, has discovered in practice what kind of
a thing the commune is, and communal responsibility, temperance, and
similar fine things.”
“The family, if you please, the family, as it exists with our peasants!”
cried Pável Petróvich.
“It would be better, I suppose, not to enter into the details of that
affair. Listen, Pável Petróvich, give yourself two days’ time; you will
hardly find anything before that time. Run over all our conditions of
life, consider them all well, while, in the meantime, Arkádi and I
will----”
“Make light of everything,” interrupted Pável Petróvich.
“No, cut up frogs. Come, Arkádi! Good-bye, gentlemen!”
Both friends went out.
[15] See page 98, line 28.
POEMS IN PROSE (SENILIA)
NATURE
I dreamt that I entered an enormous subterranean hall with high vaults.
It was all filled with an even, subterranean light.
In the very centre of the hall sat a majestic woman in a flowing garment
of a green colour. Bending her head on her hand, she seemed to be buried
in deep meditation.
I saw at once that that woman was Nature herself, and, with a sudden
chill, a reverential awe entered my soul.
I approached the woman who was sitting there, and making a respectful
bow: “O our common mother!” I exclaimed. “What are you meditating on?
Are you, perchance, pondering on the future destiny of the human race?
Or, how it may reach the highest possible perfection and happiness?”
The woman slowly turned to me her dark, piercing eyes. Her lips moved,
and there issued from them a ringing voice, like the clanking of iron.
“I am thinking how to add greater strength to the muscles of a flea’s
legs, that it may more easily save itself from its enemies. The
equilibrium between attack and defence has been impaired---- It must be
re-established.”
“What?” I lisped an answer. “Is that what you are thinking about? But
are we not, men, your favourite children?”
The woman barely frowned: “All creatures are my children,” she spoke,
“and I take equal care of them, and equally exterminate them.”
“But goodness--reason--justice----” I muttered again.
“Those are human words,” was heard the woman’s voice. “I know neither
good nor evil---- Reason is not my law, and what is justice? I have
given you life, and I will take it from you and will give it to others,
worms or men----it makes no difference to me---- You defend yourself in
the meantime, and do not bother me!”
I wanted to retort--but the earth around me gave a dull groan and
trembled, and I awoke.
Dmítri Vasílevich Grigoróvich. (1822-1900.)
Grigoróvich was the son of a landed proprietor, and was born in a
village on the Vólga, in the Government of Simbírsk. His early
childhood he passed at home; at ten years of age he entered a boarding
school in Moscow, and later the School of Engineers, where he studied
at the same time as his friend Dostoévski. Having become infatuated
with art, he transferred himself to the Academy of Arts and there
studied drawing for two years. He began writing in 1844, and attracted
the attention of the public and of the critic Byelínski by his
sketches from the life of the serfs, _The Village_ and _Antón the
Miserable_. These were followed by a large number of shorter stories
and two novels, _The Fishermen_ and _The Emigrants_; they mainly excel
for their artistic landscape painting, in which they abound. His warm
advocacy of emancipation and his sympathetic descriptions of peasant
life have earned for him the name of the Russian Beecher-Stowe.
Two of his stories have been translated into English: _Cruel City_,
after the Russian, with a sketch of the author, by E. de Pierson
(Sunshine Series, No. 84), London and New York, 1891; _New Year’s Eve_
(Railway and General Automatic Library), London, [1892].
FROM “THE FISHERMEN”
A gloomy, grey day. The vault of heaven looks as though lowered, as
though pensively reposing over the silent earth. If it were not for the
warmth of the air, the nascent odour of budding verdure, one might have
thought spring had suddenly been changed into autumn. There are many
such days in the beginning of spring. They resemble the fair, pensive
face of a young girl. All Nature suddenly grows still, like a lively
child in the open, who, having abandoned himself to noisy, boisterous
merriment, and not trusting his strength, suddenly throws himself tired
on the grass and sleeps a sweet sleep.
In such days you will not hear a sound. Everything living seems to hold
its breath, to get ready for something, to collect its strength for a
noisy celebration of the summer. The flocks are silent, as if
intoxicated by the strong aroma of the unfolding plants, which, lacking
the sunrays, is spreading over the ground; the animals are reclining on
the succulent grass, and hang their heads, or lazily wander about. The
birds dreamily slumber on the branches that are permeated by their
fresh, young sap; the insects are hid under the tree-bark, or have crept
into the narrow seams of the moss that, in an infinitely diminished
form, resembles impassable fir forests; not a fly buzzes in the air; the
air itself seems to be afraid to break the solemn quiet, and touches not
a blade, nor even raises the light down that is left in the meadows by
the young, newly hatched goslings.
Nothing can be more poetical than such days! A delicate, happily tuned
ear can distinguish, midst this dead silence, a measured, harmonious
singing. Your soul is filled with an inexpressibly pleasant sensation.
But not ecstatic agitation nor pensive sorrow (in which there is a charm
of their own) takes possession of your soul: no! your blood and brain
are in perfect composure; you simply feel happy; your whole being
involuntarily recognises the possibility of quiet, peaceful enjoyments,
of a modest, intimate life with yourself,--a life which you have been,
perchance, long seeking in vain; the capitals, with their din,
splendour, and enticements, do not exist for you: they appear so small
that you do not even notice them. In such moments your heart is light
and free, as in the first years of happy youth; not one evil thought
will enter your head. You are satisfied with yourself, satisfied with
your feelings, satisfied with your loneliness, and you bless Providence
for having given you a chance to live, breathe, and feel.
It was just such a day when Vanyúsha, early in the morning, bade his
family farewell. The landscape, it seemed, had assumed the most gloomy
and grey appearance in order to rouse in the heart of the lad as little
regret as possible in parting with familiar places. The fisherman’s
family was standing in the yard: it was not numerous now, for Peter,
Vasíli, and their wives and children had left the day before. There were
there in all: Glyeb, his old wife, his son, the adopted child, and
Grandfather Kondráti, who had come to see Vanyúsha off.
We find them during the most fateful and oppressive minute. The gate
that leads out to the small square is already open; grandfather Kondráti
has already taken back to the cabin the old ikon with which the parents
have blessed their son. It is only left to say: “Come!” but old Glyeb is
still hesitating. Gríshka has meanwhile told the companion of his youth
good-bye; he is standing some distance away; his head is bent, his brows
are knit, but his dark eyes, which are stealthily directed now to one
side of the yard, now to another, clearly indicate that his sorrowful
look is assumed only by necessity, to fit the occasion, and that he does
not share the family’s grief.
None of those present this minute think of the adopted child. Aunt Ánna
tightly clasps the neck of her beloved child with both her hands; the
face of the old woman is still more tightly pressed against his breast;
in a weak, dying voice she pronounces a disconnected parting prayer.
Before them Glyeb is standing; his eyes are dry; he utters no
complaints, no accusations, no bitter words of blame, but his hands
folded over his breast, the drooping head, the furrows, which one cannot
count upon his high brow, sufficiently indicate that the soul of the old
fisherman is passing through a heavy trial. In vain Grandfather
Kondráti, whom Glyeb always respected and obeyed, tries to console him,
calling to his aid soul-saving words: the words of the old man are
powerless now; they act upon Glyeb as upon a half-witted person: he
hears every word of the grandfather, distinguishes every sound of his
voice, but does not retain them in his memory. Glyeb is still unable to
collect his thoughts: in the last three days the old man had passed
through so much sorrow! The acts of his children have effaced from his
memory the whole sixty years of a quiet, undisturbed, one may even say,
happy life. But however much one may think, or feel grieved, nothing is
gained by it, and time passes. “Come!” says Glyeb.
Grandfather Kondráti warily unclasps the hands of the old woman who
thoughtlessly and speechlessly is hanging about the neck of her son;
Aunt Ánna has wept her last strength away with her last tears. Ványa
transfers her from his hands to the hands of Kondráti, hastily throws a
bundle with his possession over his shoulder, makes the sign of the
cross and, without raising his tearful eyes, hurries after his father
who meanwhile has bent around the corner of the cabin. A despairing,
heartrending cry, uttered behind him, chains the young lad to the spot.
“Ványa!--Ványa!”
“Cease, mother----do not grieve so----God is merciful!” says he,
embracing the old woman who is grasping him in her hands like an
insensate person.
But the consolations are in vain! Grandfather Kondráti and Ványa
continue their path, while supporting Ánna. Now, they have already
passed the garden, and now, they have crossed the brook. This brook,
witness of youthful years, serves as the last threshold of the paternal
house. Now, they have already reached the footpath, and they begin to
ascend the hill. Memories are crowding in the soul of the young lad;
with every advancing step there is a new parting.
However much the young fisherman strengthened himself with the thought
that by his action he had saved his old father from injustice and had
freed him from a heavy sin, however strong his faith in Providence was,
yet he could not restrain his tears that of their own accord coursed
down his youthful cheeks. It is, indeed, hard for the first time to part
from your paternal home, and you cannot control your heart: it will not
listen to reason, and is not deceived by fancies and hopes.
It is even more difficult for a common man to leave his native roof,
than for any other person. No matter how wretched the cabin of the poor
man may be, he is attached to it with all his feelings, with all his
soul. The attachment of the educated man for material objects to which
he has become accustomed, his attachment for his house and his soil, is
quite insignificant in comparison with the attachment of the common man
for the same objects with which he is familiar. This is easily
explained: the mental and spiritual life which more or less absolves man
from a coarse materialism is very limited in the common man. Living
almost exclusively a material, carnal life, he, so to say, grows one
with every object which surrounds him, with every log of his cabin; he
was born there, he has passed his life there without interruption; not
one thought has drawn him away beyond the confines of his native hut: on
the contrary, all his thoughts have been directed to the one object of
never leaving his home. The Russian peasant is pre-eminently a lover of
his family, and domestic in his habits.
I had once occasion to see a ploughman’s family who were of their own
free will emigrating to the fertile southern Governments, bidding
farewell to their field,--miserable two desyatínas of clayey, almost
worthless, soil. I have in all my life not seen such a terrible parting,
such terrible tears! A mother, who parts from her beloved children, does
not embrace them so passionately and does not kiss them so warmly, as
these peasants kissed the earth that had supported them so many years.
It seemed as though they left themselves in these two plots. Pieces of
earth were even sewed into the amulets of the suckling babes!
The common man bows to habit: when he parts from his house, he parts
from everything that binds him to the soil. He has lived in his
exclusive, limited sphere; there are no interests for him outside of his
home; he looks with suspicion at the world which transcends the limits
of his customary, narrow conceptions. When he leaves his home, he does
not strengthen himself, as we do, with dreams and hopes: he positively
knows only this,--that he is leaving his home, that he is leaving
everything which binds him to life, and therefore he abandons himself
with all his feelings, with all his soul to grief.
Having reached the summit of the high ridge of the river bank, from
which the deceased Uncle Akím had once timidly descended with Gríshka to
the cabin of the old fisherman, Glyeb stopped. It was not the rapid
ascent that had tired him: he would rather have walked more rapidly, and
would have gone higher up. A strange weight rested upon the old man’s
heart; he wished to walk a hundred versts without stopping, if the
exhaustion would only allay the persistent pining that was gnawing at
his heart. When Ványa and Grandfather Kondráti, who were still
supporting Ánna, had ascended the hill, Glyeb went up to them:
“Why did you bring her here?” said he impatiently: “it will not make
things easier. Well, old woman, that will do--say farewell, and the Lord
be with you! Too much parting,--too much weeping! Well, good-bye!”
“Good-bye, mother!” muttered the son, and for the first time he could
not control himself, and for the first time burst out into tears: he
wept bitterly, like a small boy.
The old woman shuddered at this sight: her oblivion disappeared, her
strength was resurrected. Drawing aside with her lean hands the kerchief
which covered her head, she cast a senseless glance on all present, as
if not yet quite conscious of what was happening, and then she suddenly,
with the rapidity of lightning, threw herself on her son, and placed her
hands over his head. The cry that accompanied that motion cut as with a
knife the hearts of the two old men. People of Grandfather Kondráti’s
age do not weep: all the tears have been wept, and their source itself
has long ago dried up. But Glyeb had yet seen little grief; and so his
strength left him. However much Glyeb fortified himself, however much he
turned his head aside, and knit his brows, large teardrops of their own
will burst from his eyes and silvered still more his grey beard. He
waved his hand and walked ahead more rapidly. Ványa tore himself away
from the embrace of his mother and ran after him, all the time making
the sign of the cross.
“Ványa! Ványa!”
The old woman started after her son; but her legs gave way. She fell
upon her knees and extended her hands before her.
Ványa meanwhile continued to follow his father. Only once did he turn
back: the cabins, the small squares, the brook, the boats, the
nets,--all had disappeared! At the edge of the hill, which hid the
indentation of the shore that served him for his native place, he saw
only Kondráti’s white head leaning over something prostrate in the road.
Beyond them, in the limitless depth, he saw the distant meadows. From
this height Grandfather Kondráti’s little lake appeared as in the palm
of the hand: a white moving dot glinted through the verdure that
surrounded the lake in a dark strip. Ványa almost stopped, but
immediately turned his head aside, made the sign of the cross, and
walked on more rapidly. When he found himself within a few steps from
his father, he did not hold out, and turned back once more; but this
time the eyes of the young lad no longer met familiar places: everything
had disappeared behind the hill, the dark ridge of which rested against
the gloomy, grey, cheerless sky.
Farewell, mother! Farewell home, childhood, memories,--farewell
everything!
Yákov Petróvich Polónski. (1820-1898).
Polónski was born in the city of Ryazán, where he graduated from the
Gymnasium. After that he studied law at the Moscow University, and in
1844 he published his first collection of poems, under the title of
_Gamuts_. Then began for him years of restless wanderings in Russia
and abroad, in his attempt to earn his daily bread. Upon his return to
St. Petersburg, in 1859, he became an editor of a periodical, and soon
after he was made a member in the Board of Foreign Censorship. His
genius has been characterised by Turgénev as follows: “His talent
represents a special, quite individual mixture of simple-hearted
grace, a free picturesqueness of language, upon which still rests a
reflection of Púshkin’s elegance, and a certain amiable, though
frequently awkward, honesty and truthfulness of impressions. At times
he, almost unconsciously to himself, surprises one with the sharpness
of his poetic vision.” Many of his lyrics belong to the most popular
of songs in Russia, and have been set to music. Of his longer poems,
the fantastic tale _Musician Grasshopper_ enjoys the greatest
popularity.
But little of Polónski has been translated. In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian
Lyrics_ are given _The Birds_, _Night in the Crimea_, _The Sun and the
Moon_, _The Guardian Angel_; in John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the
Russian_,--_On Skobelev_ (reprinted in the Library of the World’s Best
Literature); in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 21, by H.
Havelock, _Love scared thee not_, and _To the fond heart that
passionately loveth_; in Free Russia, vol. xii, No. 11, by Charlotte
Sidgwick, _A Vision_.
THE BIRDS
The smell of fields pervades the air,
And in the peaceful sky
Are heard the lays of tuneful birds,
Resounding far and high.
Each has its mate, with whom it spends
The hours of day and night;
In unmown fields, and growing grass,
Their homes are their delight.
Up in the skies they pour their notes,
Fired with enraptured song;
But, still, to earth, though not for bread,
The free birds all belong.
While thus I listen to their voice,
Vexation stirs my mind;
Their happy lot with envy fills
The hearts of all mankind.
--From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_.
NIGHT IN THE CRIMEA
Bear’st thou in mind the moon’s glimmering light,
On rocks the waves dashing with sullen roar,
The rustling trees with sleepy leaves adight,
The chirruping crickets in the fields anight,
Close by the garden, on the sea-girt shore?
In twilight soft, beneath the garden’s shade,
We wandered; scent of laurel filled the air;
We saw a grotto in the vineyard made,
And water falling, as we careless strayed,
Which sounded sweetly in the basin there.
Dost thou recall the freshness of the hour,
The smell of roses, and the murmuring brooks?
All Nature seemed entranced with magic power,
And at each other, in the perfumed bower
Sitting, gazed we with absorbing looks.
The music flowing from all Nature’s smiles,
The melody working in the awakened soul,
This have I heard mid all the cozening wiles
Of life,--in direst storms,--and it beguiles
My aching heart, and fills my spirit whole.
I lent unto the chords attentive ear,
While my mind warmèd to the beauteous sound,
Which touched my senses with triumphant cheer;
I listened till it drew me ever near,
And all my soul with joyous rapture bound.
--From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_.
───────
Love scared thee not, for early thy heart ripened;
His was thy trust, and now thou mourn’st alone.
O hapless, hopeless prey of lies and passion,
Burst thou their net, and fear not any blame!
The blame of men, their feigned reprobation,
Heed not, nor weep, but clear thy clouded eyes.
Not I thy judge, thy headsman, though I know it
That with a laugh malice thy doom has signed.
Has not each one of us been passion’s plaything?
Will nought but death assuage thine enemies’ scorn?
Will e’en thy friends not cease thy soul to torture?
Feed not the fire, and malice self must die.
And all that in thee was of pure, of holy,
Of dear, shall sacred be to those that love thee,
And rich as ever shall thy generous heart be,
And thou shalt love as erst and, loving, smile.
--Transl. by H. Havelock, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society,
No. 21.
FROM “MUSICIAN GRASSHOPPER”
Not the blustering cricket chirping at the stove I sing: my hero is a
small grasshopper. He was of small size, but oblong in shape, and wore
over his back a greenish frock; he was thin-legged, lank, and broad of
brow, and he was a real genius, had a special gift: he was famed as a
musician among all the insects, and he often invited his friends to hear
his concerts. He lived under the luxuriant grass in the open field, and
drowned the air with the eternal piping of his orchestra. The frivolous
tribe of hoppers has forgotten that at that time he was the
representative of good taste and music.
Everything which the rustic dweller nowadays hears outside the window,
as he lies upon his bed, or as he walks out on the balcony in his
morning gown,--this crackling piping, this discordant din that is over
everything,--so dry and yet so tender,--if in this gloomy concert there
is at all any glowing voluptuousness and rapture,--believe me,--those
are the bygone, eternal creations, or imitations, of my hero.
Poor little grasshopper, your genius is forgotten! But you have passed
your life not without adventures. I know you did not in vain pass for an
idealist: you used to sit down in the silvery light of the moon, under
the canopy of night, upon a grassblade broken by the wind. Though the
bending ears are not lightly broken, yet the naughty wind crushes many
of them in the wavy meadow. You used to sit down, and with all your
might you scraped upon your fiddle, in order to glorify night. And the
empty-headed squeakers, the villainous mosquitoes, the trumpeters of the
steppe, teased you, and ladybirds fell in love with you, and envy roiled
many a little head with the same musical inclination and with the same
eagerness, but not with the same ability. And the gnat threatened to
kill, by means of science, the sounds which you produced, and the
weighty June-bug repeatedly assured all that it was pleasant to moisten
the ears at your concert, for otherwise the ears would dry up, like the
grass, from the terrible drouth.
In your private life you have frequently been put in an awkward position
by the good little ladybirds, flies, and little bugs: you listened to
their confessions, and timidly avoided secret meetings with them.
Nothing, however, disturbed your calm: no sting appeared injurious to
your talent: you were unconquerable in the musical world.
Little linden trees,--that was something in the nature of a park; in the
centre--a pond, and at the entrance--a bower of branches, unquestionably
a marvel of perfection; it was so spacious that--just think of it--two
hundred insects could enter it in a row. Hang me if I am telling an
untruth! The architect of it--I will not conceal it--was Nature herself;
only I do not know who paid her for the work; however, we are not
concerned here about Nature. Lest the journalists should peck us to
death, I will confess that it was hardly possible to describe the
staircase under the yellow carpet of moss, which was worn through in
spots; nor the gloomy antechamber, where the lackeys could remain from
early morning without their boots, but not without their liveries; nor
the parlour, where some mould, like stalactites, stuck to the cornices
and was wound about with verdure. An acquaintance of mine, a Russian
architect, saw in this parlour a bit of Etruscan art, and--I remember it
well--he boasted, without blushing, that the idea had struck him in that
parlour tastefully to adorn lordly rooms by covering the wall-paper with
white mould.
However, the house of the sylphid, to be sternly critical about the
style, resembled somewhat a hole in a tree. The grasshopper was so
charmed, or his heart was so electrified, that he trembled and wasted
away as he silently waited for the sylphid, while standing at the window
and looking at the sights. The sylphid was flitting about with someone
in the garden, and having a chat with pleasant guests. These guests were
worms of various appellations, and they lay in the grass in the form of
hooks. A black-skinned little bedbug, doubtless the porter’s son, or the
nurse’s grand-child--a godchild of the gentlefolk--announced to the
sylphid that a certain lank gentleman was waiting for her in the
drawing-room.
My hero was called in. His bow was returned with a smile, and he heard
the muttering: “Very, very happy!” The ladies examined his whole figure,
and hardly could withhold their laughter: they only looked askance at
the gentlemen. But the worms did not stir, for someone had so dreadfully
narrowed down their brains that they need only look at the decoration on
the ribbon or around the neck, in order not to pay any attention to the
rest, and remain in haughty calm.
The artist’s calling familiarises the soul with all kinds of meetings;
but my hero was not accustomed to the manners of the charming insects of
the higher order. Living at a distance from the garden, poor, sickly,
and pale, he wore from the crown of his head to the sole of his feet the
imprint of the field upon him. There clouds alone raise their voice, and
the harvest waves its ears, and the grain waits for the scythe.
I know, O grasshopper, how well you were received by the butterfly. You
acted proudly, as if you had spent all your life in higher society,
though from early childhood you had never travelled except in your own
carriage. But tell me, what became of you on that evening, and what
inexpressible feeling compressed your soul, and what thoughts ardently
possessed your genial brow, as you departed from the park and took your
fieldward way over the tufts? Will you say, or--shall we put down
periods?
Departing day wept behind the mountain, and, shedding tears, cast a warm
glow upon the edge of the meadow, from behind the dark grove. Night came
in the track of day, and mingling lights were reflected and, quivering,
wandered over her cheeks. Softly came out the lights, the heralds of the
moon, lighting the tapers before the throne of God. Far and wide the sea
of the tremulous harvest grew dark; the melancholy birch embraced the
linden tree; the grove grew silent; only the oak whispered, and the
woodpecker somewhere tapped his strong beak, and somewhere a rivulet
lisped sadly,--only fateful passions were not asleep, and only the
irrepressible world of insects vociferated without cessation in the
sleepless silence. The flies hummed, the mosquitoes trumpeted; those
whom the grasshopper led in the chorus merrily scraped their fiddles,
evidently knowing their music even without candles. In front of the
orchestra, he scraped his fiddle loudest of all, in honour of his queen.
It was the marriage of the butterfly’s cousin, and the bridegroom was a
fine fellow with a long mouthpiece; of course, he was not mentally
quick, but he came from a family of select worms. According to the
bride’s words, he was intolerable only because he indiscriminately
compared the odour of old pines with the vernal fragrance of violets,
and because he respected the brier and was afraid of jackdaws.
But what do we care for this nonsense? The ball was magnificent. The
choirs bubbled over with sounds. Dozens of Spanish flies in golden
liveries burnt incense in murky avenues. Glowworms, flaming up like
fire-pots and rockets, gleamed up and down all the paths. The guests
swarmed everywhere. The butterflies flitted in the moonshine in their
ball dresses; darning-needles flashed through the air, holding on to
darning-needles; the variegated whirl of the waltz spun around with a
rustling sound; bugs circled around the serving table; small beetles
crawled about, and the weighty persons of fashionable society, the
ladybugs, were gathered together to show their newest dresses. Two
beetles with big bellies on short legs silently approached two green
flies. An ant, laced in a waistcoat of the latest fashion, solemnly and
carelessly bent his knees, while dancing with a yellow ladybird. The
lively sylphid flapped her little wings: her eyes, her nose, her little
feet, the pattern of her dress,--everything in her involuntarily
attracted attention.
My artistic grasshopper’s soul was aflame; he did not turn his eyes away
from her and be played like a demon. At her own request he, his heart
being unchangeable, composed this inspired dance, by whose music hop
even to-day the myriads of insects on any flower-bed of your garden, if,
O reader, the Creator has at all given you a garden, or, at least, a
garden plot.
However, the ball of the insects did not pass without a scandal: they
say, there was an evil spider in the park who, having drawn his threads
from twig to twig, made such a devilishly clever and artistic, invisible
net, that, maybe, he had a nice little snack in secret. They say also
that a ladybird fell down and that from fright her corset gave way. The
artist himself noticed a little spider--he looked so innocent--throwing
something like a hook over the sylphid’s wing, and trying to draw her to
him, in order to find somewhere in the charming garden a place where he
could pass with her at least ten minutes in the cool shade, in silence,
in comfort, away from the bustle. But the jealous artist understood his
cunning, so he leaped up and tore the fateful threads.
The spider swelled with anger; and a mosquito buzzed to the artist:
“See, how you have soiled yourself, as if you had been in an improper
place.”
The grasshopper blushed, seeing the cobweb sticking to his sleeve. “What
a beast!” he grumbled, and he wiped it off. The butterfly said not a
word, and only chose another partner for the dance: the winged gentleman
was her neighbour’s silly brother.
“Is it true,” he asked, “there is a rumour in the meadow, that you are
dead in love with the maestro? They say that the grasshopper wants to
marry you, and that he is suing for your hand?”
“Don’t say that!” said the sylphid. “My husband--a grasshopper! What an
insult! Who has spread this gossip? Or have the flies concocted this
stupid thing?”
“No, not the flies at all! Someone from the orchestra said that he heard
it from the maestro.”
The fay controlled herself and did not show her anger and, flapping her
wings, cast a cold glance upon the musician, and when all, to honour his
talents, cried: “Bravo! Fora, fora!” she screwed up her face or smiled,
with downcast eyes.
Aleksyéy Feofiláktovich Písemski. (1820-1881.)
Písemski was the son of poor gentlefolk in the Government of Kostromá,
where his father was an army officer. At fourteen years of age he
entered the Gymnasium, and there developed a taste for the theatre and
for writing; after graduation he studied mathematics at the Moscow
University, but he devoted much of his time to acting in amateur
theatricals and to public readings, becoming famous as a reader of
Gógol. He began his literary career in 1847 and produced a large
number of novels and dramas. In all these he evolved a cynical
pessimism of the extremest kind, and unmercifully and without reserve
laid bare the moral dirt and corruption that surrounded him. His
pictures from the life of the common people, as found in _The
Petersburgian_, _The Faun_, _Bitter Fate_, and _A Thousand Souls_, are
remarkably realistic, though harrowing in their nakedness. Having
incurred the enmity of the liberal writers of the sixties, who
suspected him of retrograde tendencies, he, in 1863, wrote his novel,
_Troubled Waters_, which roused a storm of indignation in the liberal
camp. By depicting only the underside, with all its nastiness, of the
movement of the sixties, he did great harm to progress in Russia.
After that greatest of his works, his genius began to decline, and he
died, amidst much mental and moral suffering, neglected and despised
by the literary coteries.
THE OLD PROPRIETRESS
The cabin which I entered was large and neat, the woodwork was planed,
the stove white, the partition made of boards, the bench and shelves
washed clean. In the front corner, under the ikons, stood a table,
behind which sat an old man with a shaven beard, with two grey tufts of
hair on his temples, with a clever expression on his face and,
evidently, blind. He was dressed in a blue cloth coat of ancient cut,
underneath which could be seen a laced shirt front and a striped
cashmere vest, no doubt an ancient fashion, too. All that old costume of
his was clean and, it seemed, preserved in spite of time. By his side
sat a neat and trim-looking old woman, in a threadbare old hood and a
chintz capote. At first glance I thought they were poor gentlefolk. Upon
my entering, the old woman immediately rose and said something to the
old man: he raised himself, and both bowed to me.
“Please, be seated, I shall find a place,” said I.
“Never mind, sir,” said the old woman with an affected voice, brushing
aside her scanty possessions in a small bag.
“Be seated, please,” I repeated.
The old man heeded my words and, feeling the bench with the cautiousness
of a blind person, seated himself, and, bending over his staff, fixed
his dim eyes upon me. The old woman did not sit down but continued
standing in a respectful attitude. I guessed they were not gentlefolk.
“Whither are you travelling, friends?” asked I.
“To the capital of the Government, dear sir,” answered the old man in a
sad voice.
“The grandparents are seeing this lad off,--they are his grandparents,”
hastened to add the hostess, who was placing a samovár on the table.
“The grandparents of this fellow?” said I.
“Yes, sir,” answered the old man with a deep sigh, and hung his grey
head.
“What rank are you?”
“Burghers, your honour.”
“Burghers by birth?”
“By no means, sir; we were formerly manorial servants.”
“Not in this place ought a grandson of Yákov Ivánovich be,” interrupted
the hostess: “I will say it in the presence of this old man,” she
continued, “he was in his day a great gentleman, and full of mettle.
Whenever he stopped off here, I had to bestir myself: it would not have
done to offer him stale food or a dirty samovár.”
The old man smiled a bitter smile.
“We did not think, madam, that a child of our own could ever act thus,”
said the old woman in her affected and somewhat lackadaisical voice.
“What ’s to be done, mother? What ’s to be done?” replied the hostess,
also in a whining voice.
“He was left after my daughter,” proceeded the old woman. “He was our
precious diamond; we thought he would be the consolation and joy in our
loneliness and old age. We had him educated like a child of gentlefolk:
we placed him in Moscow with what we thought to be nice merchant
people.”
“What ’s to be done, what ’s to be done, mother!” again fell in the
hostess.
“Well, did he dissipate?” asked I.
“God knows, sir, whether it was the merchant people did not treat him
right, or he did not watch himself,” answered the old woman.
The old man smiled bitterly and interrupted his wife:
“He had not taken care of himself since his childhood, for he was born
and brought up a spoilt child. Other clerks in his business send money
home while they are still boys, but our lad kept on writing home for
some: we sent him money, until we were ruined. Meanwhile we heard that
he was getting into things that might bring him into jail. We wrote him
to come home, and he turned up only after two years: he was barefoot and
naked. We clothed him, hoping that he would mend under our eyes, but,
instead, he began the very first week to take everything from the house
to the inn.” With every new word there was heard more severity in his
voice, and tears stood in the eyes of the old woman.
“Who were your masters?” asked I, in order to interrupt the
conversation, which evidently gave them pain.
“Our mistress was Madam Court-intendant Pasmúrov,” reverently spoke the
old man.
“Madam Court-intendant Pasmúrov,” repeated I, remembering that my mother
used to tell about a Madam Court-intendant Pasmúrov, as in her day a
great lady.
“Your mistress was quite a prominent and well-known woman in these
parts?” said I.
At this question the face of the old man became quite serene.
“Our lady,” he began, speaking slowly and with emphasis, “was probably
the first person in Russia. She was a woman by sex, but not one man
could have stood out against her. As she said, so it was done. She was a
woman of immense brains.”
“They say she lived well, in a lordly manner,” said I.
“Royally, or as would become the wife of a field-marshal. She did not
visit her fellow landed proprietors the year round. There were forty
rooms in the manor, and yet they were crowded on holidays. They would
come down like the locusts with their nurses and their
children,--everybody was welcome,” concluded the old man in a boastful
tone.
I saw that I had before me one of those old servants of former lords,
who had grown up and become old, on the one hand, in what was then
regarded as modern fashions, and on the other, under the cane.
“You, no doubt, were a steward?” asked I.