“I was, sir,” answered he, compressing his eyes, as if to collect his

thoughts, “I was, as we used to call it in those days, chief servant of

the manor: for one thing, I had some twenty men and the musicians under

my command, but especially the serving at the table. Our lady of blessed

memory did not like things to be done half way: every day there was to

be a parade! Another thing: her eyesight was weak, so I had to write

letters at her dictation, and I had to attend courts in her behalf; I

was well instructed and, though I did not know the law as I ought to, I

knew how to get along with the officials. Up to the fiftieth year of my

life, sir, I never wore anything but silk stockings and full dress of

fine English cloth. God grant her the kingdom of heaven,--I enjoyed the

favour of my lady.”

“Nowadays there are no such masters,” said I.

“By no means, sir, and there cannot be,--I have not the honour of

knowing who you may be, for, being blind, I cannot see. There are no

such masters now,” answered the old man, as if restraining himself from

being open to me.

“I am a landed proprietor in this neighbourhood, and I should like to

ask you about those masters of olden times.”

The old man sighed.

“I am seeing my ninety-seventh year in this world, sir, and I see a

great change in everything: those old masters, I must say so, are in

comparison with those of to-day like eagles before sparrows,” spoke he,

significantly shaking his head.

“How so?” asked I.

The old man moved his hands in thoughts.

“The first thing,” he began, “they have somehow squandered their

properties, and they have not the same spirit. Gentlemen nowadays behave

differently, but then all was simple; there was plenty of everything:

grain, cattle, their own winepress,--they prepared liqueurs by the

barrel, and such meads and sweet drinks! They made merry and enjoyed

themselves; for example, they would bring together a lot of male and

female jesters on some holiday, and they would urge them on against each

other: and they fought and amused the gentlefolk; but nowadays they keep

little company with each other, and find more pleasure in books.”

Here the old man stopped, but he soon began anew with animation:

“There are not many gentlemen who now stay on their estates, unless they

be old or sick, but all serve in some capacity; there are no longer

great personages. Let us take, for instance, our lady, the

Court-intendant,” he continued, almost with emotion, “how she was

honoured in the Government! A new lieutenant, or, as you call him now, a

new governor, is appointed: he is still in St. Petersburg, but she is

already writing to her friends, the ministers and senators, that,

inasmuch as a new governor is coming to us, ‘you tell him to know me,

and I will know him.’ And the moment she receives the news that he has

arrived, she immediately sends for me. I make my appearance, and bow.

‘Listen,’ says she, ‘Yákov Ivánov!’--she always spoke a little through

her nose: ‘Listen! A new governor has arrived, so take the best

tróyka,[16] drive to Kostromá, go to such and such a jeweller and

purchase a silver basin; search out wherever you please the very best of

sterlets, or, still better, a live sturgeon; go in my name to the

governor, have yourself announced, and say this and that about your

mistress, the Court-intendant, and that, on account of ill-health, she

cannot come herself, so she congratulates him by proxy upon his arrival

and, as a resident, sends him, as a greeting and instead of the bread

and salt, fish in the basin.’ He receives it, I am given a fine treat,

and he sends a letter to our mistress.”

“So the amity began,” remarked I, in imitation of the old man’s voice.

“That ’s it, amity, your word is correct!” he fell in: “because, when

now his Excellency, the Chief of the Government, deigned to travel on

inspections, he would visit us, and those were magnificent assemblies.

From what I have seen and heard, governors nowadays travel with great

pomp, and demand great receptions and respect, and there is a great

fear, at least upon the small officials, but from what I know of the

past, the governors of to-day are nothing in comparison with them.”

“How was it then?” asked I.

“Formerly, sir, the governor travelled over the Government like a king

of the earth: what a lot of officials surrounded his person, and what a

lot of gentlefolk joined him everywhere on his journey! There was

one,--I dare not mention his name,--who was in the habit of travelling

over the Government with his wife, and she,--pardon me for saying

so,--on account of her feminine weakness, had a great love for dogs.

There was a special carriage for these dogs; and a special officer had

charge of them. He by accident lost one little dog; her Excellency the

governor’s wife, in spite of her exalted position, boxed his ears in

sight of all people, and he was discharged,--that ’s the kind of times

that were then!”

“Those were good, simple times,” remarked I.

“It was simple, sir,” concluded Yákov Ivánov; then, having thought a

moment, he continued: “It would happen, sir, that all that company

stayed with us for three or four days, or a whole week, and if the

governor chanced to praise some thing in our house, say a clock, a

picture, a silver platter, I had a standing order to take that thing in

the evening to his sleeping-room and to report that my lady was very

happy that such and such a thing had pleased him, and that she begged

him to accept it.”

“Did the old lady do it all from mere bravado?” asked I.

“Bravado there was,” answered Yákov Ivánov. “Of course, she had great

vanity, but more than that, she drew great advantages from it. For

instance, an estate was for sale by order of the chancery,--and my lady,

relying on her amicable relations to the chiefs of the Government, had

only to cast her eyes upon it, and it was ours. If I, the

plenipotentiary of Mrs. Pasmúrov, appeared at the sales in the chancery,

not a purchaser turned up: they knew full well that the Chief of the

Government did not desire it. I thanked where thanks were needed, and in

a befitting manner, and it was all right whatever was paid for the

estate. The estate of Byelogrívy, sir, came in those days into our hands

for one hundred and twenty roubles, and when I went down to take

possession of it, I collected two hundred roubles of delinquent dues

from the peasants, so you may figure out what the estate cost us.”

Saying this, the peasant evidently did not consider that he had said too

much, and when I cried out almost involuntarily:

“Old man! but that is a sin, that is stealing,” he was taken back, and

answered in an humbled voice and with a sigh:

“A sin, sir; in my wretchedness and blindness I see and feel it all; in

the commandments of the Lord it is said: thou shalt not covet thy

neighbour’s house, nor his village, nor his manservant,--but our old

lady had a desire for it all, though it must be said that all people are

not without weaknesses.” He strongly accentuated the last word.

“I should say, he and his mistress knew their advantage!” suddenly fell

in Gráchikha, who was busy at the stove: “you are telling of the estate,

but you had better tell how you delivered a gentleman into the army as a

recruit from your estate,” continued she, stepping out behind the

partition and standing near the ovenbed, while she leaned with one arm

on a beam and with the other against her fat side.

Yákov Ivánov frowned a little.

“How a gentleman?” asked I.

“They did,” answered Gráchikha. “Their mistress, the General’s wife, did

not like to get her peasants under the red hat, because she needed them

all; so there happened to turn up a poor gentleman: he was not a nice

fellow to behold; he must have been maimed when he was young,--his head

was so large and flat, and there was little sense in it, for he knew

neither count, nor days, nor anything else, and yet he knew enough to

live according to his estate. So these our falcons came to him and began

to persuade him: ‘You,’ they said, ‘are a gentleman, and yet you live as

a labourer among the peasants. You had better serve in the army; but as

you know neither how to read, nor write, you will not be ranked as a

gentleman, so you had better serve first for our estate, and later, when

you will declare yourself a gentleman, you will be properly advanced.’

Having no kin with whom to take counsel, he foolishly drank their wine

and ate their cates, and unthinkingly consented. The young gentleman was

brought to the recruiting office, and was declared a common peasant.

They called out: ‘Shave him!’ dressed him in soldier’s clothes, and

‘March!’ with the rest of the recruits. Three or four years later he

announced to his superior: ‘I,’ says he, ‘am a gentleman!’ ‘What kind of

a gentleman are you?’ says he, and he chaffed him a little, but he kept

on repeating: ‘I am a gentleman, that ’s all,’ and he went to the higher

authorities, and told them the same. They looked into the documents, and

saw that he was a peasant, so they reported that way. So our gentleman

had to give it up, and he served thirty-five years for their estate.

They knew how to fix documents! It may be that for their trickery they

are now paying with their own blood,” said Gráchikha half-loud, pointing

with her eyes to Yákov Ivánovich, who, in his turn, had listened to her

recital with bent head, and without saying a word.

I tried to change the subject, so I asked the old man:

“In whose hands is the estate of your mistress now? I saw it: it is

dilapidated and neglected, and the house is in ruins.”

“Our estate is now held in trust,” answered he, evidently satisfied with

the change. “Well, the guardians are strangers, and they either do not

care to look after things, or they steal into their own pockets. Not

only do they neglect the estate, but they do not keep the peasants in

order. Drunkards and wasters are living without fear, and those who are

better off now are frequently squeezed: ‘We will put your son,’ they

say, ‘into the army, or we will take him to our own estate.’”

“And now, peasant, pay your ransom. In former days you used to make a

great deal of money,” fell in Gráchikha.

Yákov Ivánov paid no attention to her words, and continued:

“And then the estate has no protection against the officials. In former

days, when my mistress was alive, our manorial servants were, to tell

the truth, a riotous lot. Not a church holiday passed without their

riots, when they would smash whole fairs, but the authorities,

considering who they were and to what lady they belonged, begged them

with words to stop; but nowadays, our rural captain of police, an

insignificant man, commands and punishes in our villages, just out of

interest to that accursed one himself, in whose favour he is so biassed

that he regards that day lost in which he has not had some advantage

from his office. I once met him in town, and says I to him: ‘Why and for

what cause do you, sir, so abuse the estate of my mistress?’ ‘Ah,’ says

he, ‘worthy old man, where are we, the rural police, to have our sway,

if not in the estates that are in trust? These are severe times, we are

not permitted to take bribes, but what we can pocket in any other way is

all right!’ and he laughed, sir!”

[16] Three-horse carriage.

Afanási Afanásevich Shenshín (Fet). (1820-1892.)

Shenshín is one of the most melodious of the minor poets. He was born

in the Government of Orél, and received his early education at home.

Upon entering the Moscow University he was confronted with certain

difficulties which compelled him to assume the name of Fet, after his

mother by her first marriage, which he retained through life as his

_nom de plume_. He then served in the army up to 1856, after which he

retired to his Orél estate. He began writing in 1840, and at first

distinguished himself as a translator from Goethe and Horace. His

original poems, of which there is a large number, are all short and

tunable lyrical outbursts, with rarely a title to know them by.

Two short poems, _A Russian Scene_ and _Tryst_, are given in John

Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_, reprinted in the Library of the

World’s Best Literature; and the four nameless ones, given below, by

I. H. Harrison in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 19.

When deeply musing in the silence of the night,

I see her, gentle Queen, above me shining clearly;

When all the constellations pour out their rays of light,

And Argo seems to dream, while twinkling, then I dearly

Long for the coming hour, when I again shall see

Thee near me, with a pain dull, dumb, and ever growing,

As, frightened by each sound, I trembling wait for thee.

Impatience gnaws my breast. Thou comest, slowly, showing

By stealthy pace thy love, bashful, with timid glance

Around thee, and I rush to see those clear eyes tell

Their secret, and I read love’s answer in their dance,

And hear thee softly whisper, smiling, “I love thee well!”

I strive in vain to utter the words which fill my heart;

All speech, by passion broken, ends but in sound unmeaning,

And as I panting kiss thy hair, and feel a part

Of thy breath mine becoming, I listen, o’er thee leaning,

For what thou ’lt say, but no, I listen long in vain,--

Without a word thy kisses freely respond to mine--

O sweet one, may the happiness I feel be always thine,

And mine lie in sure hope that we two meet again!

───────

Every feeling at night to me becomes clearer and deeper,

Shapes that are born of our fears terrible grow in the dark--

Sounds I at once understand, e’en when o’er my book I sit musing,

Motionless, lost in my thoughts, stung to the point of belief

In impossible things, while that which seems strangest seems easy--

In through the windows the moon shines, and the lamp burns on

Dimly beside the couch, and far in the distance a tolling

Breaks through the silence at times, filling the room with its swell;

Gladly I yield to the charm which ever hath set my heart beating,

Moistening mine eyes with night’s dew, tears of its infinite joy--

Always I hear night’s song, but often the melody changes:

Now ’t is the clang of brass, then ’t is of silver the ring.

Strange ’t is that ears hear well when the mind is still working or

vacant;

Thought presses fast upon thought,--wave after wave in the sea,--

Night with a mystical strength embraces, and into one fuses,

Feelings and objects around, all that we see, think, and hear;

Thus on the two-headed poppies midnight sheddeth its moisture,

Giving them power of sleep--none can that mystery tell!

───────

Stay here awhile,--’t is good!--Amid the shadows looming

Widely, with jagged edge, by moonlight from the pines--

Silence is over all! The sounds on hilltops booming

Have here no leave to bring of heart’s unrest the signs.

I will not go there where the stones, my faith deceiving,

Fall from beneath my heel, as the cliff’s edge I tread,

Sheer to the beach below; where the great waves are leaving,

And rushing on, the shore--the play of waters dread.

Thou, Silence, art alone before me, ’neath the quiet

Of the deep stars, thou empress of feeling and of thought--

But _there_ the rough wave comes, and brings its splashing riot--

I will not go there where all is with tumult fraught.

───────

Night, thou art so blest with odours sweet and strong,

Thou rousest idlest fancies in the mind!

All listen unto thee, and I cannot but long

To speak of what I in thy stillness find.

Thine azure vault spreads wide before my wondering eyes,

And all thy golden lights are burning bright;

It is as if thy stars were one great sun that tries

To cast its rays upon my garden’s site.

Even the moon, no longer swimming o’er tuft-crowned trees

With placid gaze, seems like thyself to burn,

Though all the while the brook glistens in plashing ease

Beneath the boughs which hide its every turn.

The feeblest noise resounds throughout thee like a blow;

Air whispers, like the strings of a guitar,

So tenderly to thee that all who hear him know

The call to love from lands both near and far.

All Nature seems aroused, in concert to cry out

In speech that will not let our fancies die;

We push the casement open to look on night without,

And trembling try to read the silvery sky.

--Transl. by I. H. Harrison, in The Anglo-Russian Literary

Society, No. 19.

TRYST

A whisper, a gentle sigh,

Trills of the nightingale;

The silver flash of the brook,

Asleep in the sleepy vale.

The shadows and shine of night--

Shadows in endless race;

The sweet of a magical change

Over a sweet young face.

The blush of a rose in a mist,

An amber gleam on the lawn;

A rush of kisses and tears--

And oh, “the Dawn! the Dawn!”

--From John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_.

Fédor Mikháylovich Dostoévski. (1821-1881.)

Dostoévski was the second of seven children of a poor army surgeon. He

was brought up at home, which consisted of but two living rooms, by

his father. At thirteen years of age he was sent to a boarding school,

and later to the School of Engineering in St. Petersburg from which he

graduated in 1843. He received a good appointment, but soon resigned

from it in order to devote himself to literature. His first novel,

_Poor People_, appeared in 1846, and was proclaimed as the work of a

“new Gógol.” In 1849 he was arrested for a supposed participation in a

conspiracy and was sentenced for four years to Siberian prisons, after

which he was to serve as a soldier in a Siberian regiment. His nerves,

which had never been strong, were completely shattered in his

imprisonment, and he at times had fits of epilepsy. He was permitted

to return to European Russia in 1859. Two years later he published

with his brother a periodical, _The Time_, in which appeared

simultaneously two of his great novels, _The Humiliated and the

Offended_, and _The Memoirs from the Dead House_. His best novel,

_Crime and Punishment_, came out a few years later. Only towards the

end of his life did his works and his literary labours furnish him

with a competency. Dostoévski’s writings lack the artistic perfection

of his great contemporaries, and almost entirely neglect the

description of Nature; but they are unsurpassed for the psychological

analysis of human character, especially of the diseased mind. It has

been pointed out by a medical authority that in his analysis of

pathological cases he has anticipated later scientific discoveries.

The following works have been translated into English: _Buried Alive;

or, Ten Years of Penal Servitude in Siberia_, translated by Marie von

Philo, London and New York, 1881; _Prison Life in Siberia_, translated

by H. S. Edwards, London, 1887; _Crime and Punishment_, London, 1885,

New York, 1886 and 1889 (4th ed. London, 1893); _Injury and Insult_,

translated by F. Whishaw, London, 1886; _Uncle’s Dream_, and _The

Permanent Husband_, London, 1888-9; _Friend of the Family_, and _The

Gambler_, London, 1887-9; _Poor Folk_ (Franklin Square Library, No.

594), New York, 1887, translated by L. Milman, Boston, and London,

1894; _The Idiot_, London, 1887-8; extracts from _Poor People_, and

_Crime and Punishment_, translated by I. Hapgood, in the Library of

the World’s Best Literature.

FROM “CRIME AND PUNISHMENT”

RASKÓLNIKOV’S CONFESSION

Raskólnikov again covered his face with his hands and dropped his head.

He suddenly grew pale, rose from his chair, looked at Sónya, and,

without uttering a word or being conscious of the act, seated himself on

her bed.

To his sensations, that moment bore a dreadful resemblance to the one

when he was standing back of the old woman and, having loosened the axe

from the noose, was feeling that not another minute was to be lost.

“What is the matter with you?” asked Sónya, terrified.

He could not speak a word. It was not at all that way that he had

intended to announce it to her, and he did not himself understand what

was going on within him. She softly went up to him, sat down on the bed

near him, and waited, without taking her eyes away from him. Her heart

alternately beat strongly or stopped beating. It became unbearable. He

turned his deathly pale face to her; his lips twitched impotently in a

vain effort to say something. Terror passed through Sónya’s heart.

“What is the matter with you?” she repeated, moving a little away from

him.

“Nothing, Sónya. Don’t get frightened. Nonsense! Really, when you come

to think of it, it is nonsense,” he muttered like a delirious person who

is not conscious of himself. “But why have I chosen you of all persons

to torment?” he added suddenly, looking at her. “Really, why? I am

continually asking myself this question, Sónya.”

It may be he had asked himself that question fifteen minutes before, but

just then he had lost control of himself and hardly knew what he was

about, feeling only an uninterrupted chill over his whole body.

“Oh, how you suffer!” she spoke with a painful expression, looking

fixedly at him.

“It ’s all bosh!---- Say, Sónya” (he, for some reason, suddenly for a

second or two smiled a pale and impotent smile), “do you remember what I

had intended to tell you yesterday?”

Sónya was waiting restlessly.

“I told you, as I left you, that it was probably the last time I was

bidding you good-bye, but that if I came back to-day, I would tell

you--who killed Lizavéta.”

A tremor suddenly passed over her whole body.

“So, you see, I have come to tell you.”

“So you really did yesterday----” she whimpered with difficulty. “But

how do you know?” she immediately asked, as if coming to.

Sónya began to breathe with difficulty. Her face grew paler and paler.

“I do know.”

She remained silent for a minute.

“Did they find him?” she asked him timidly.

“No, they did n’t.”

“How, then, do you know about it?” she again asked him barely audibly,

after a minute’s silence.

He turned around to her and fixed his gaze at her. “Guess!” he muttered

with the same convulsive and impotent smile as before.

Her whole body was shivering as if with cramps. “You--why do you--do you

frighten me?” she spoke and smiled like a child.

“It must be, then, I am a great friend of his, since I know,” proceeded

Raskólnikov, continuing uninterruptedly to look at her face, as though

it was beyond him to take his eyes away from her. “He did not mean

to--kill--that Lizavéta-- He--killed her by accident-- He wanted to kill

the old woman--when she was alone--and he came-- And then Lizavéta

entered-- He--then killed her too.”

Another terrible minute passed. They looked at each other.

“So you can’t guess?” he suddenly asked her, with a sensation as if he

were falling down a belltower.

“N--no!” Sónya lisped almost inaudibly.

“Take a good look.”

When he said that, the former, familiar sensation suddenly iced his

soul. He glanced at her, and immediately it appeared to him, he

recognised Lizavéta in her face. He vividly remembered the expression of

Lizavéta’s face as he approached her with the axe and she kept receding

to the wall, with outstretched hand, and perfectly childish expression

of fear in her face, precisely as little children do who, when they

suddenly become frightened at something, immovably and restlessly look

at the object of their fear, step back and begin to cry, while

stretching out their little hands. Almost the same took place with

Sónya. She looked at him for a while, just as powerless, with just the

same expression of terror; then, suddenly, she stretched out her left

hand, barely touched his breast with her fingers, and began to rise

slowly from the bed, all the time removing farther away from him and

ever more immovably fixing her eyes upon him.

Her terror was soon communicated to him, and he began to look at her,

almost with the same childish smile.

“Have you guessed?” he whispered at last.

“Lord!” A terrible moan issued from her breast. She fell powerless on

the bed, with her face on the pillows. But in a moment she was again on

her feet, rapidly walked up to him, seized his two hands, and, pressing

them hard with her thin fingers, as in a vise, again became motionless

as if glued to the place, and stared at him. With this last, despairing

glance she wanted to read some last hope in his face. But there was no

hope; there was no suspicion left; it was all so! Even later, when she

recalled that moment, she felt inexpressibly strange: how was it that

she then saw at once that there was no doubt whatsoever left? For

certainly she could not say that she had had a presentiment of that

kind. But just then, when he had barely told her about it, it suddenly

flashed upon her that she really had had some such presentiment.

“Stop, Sónya, stop! Do not torment me!” he begged her pitifully. He had

had the intention of telling her about it in an entirely different

manner, but it had turned out just that way.

She jumped up, as if beside herself, and, wringing her hands, stepped to

the centre of the room; but she immediately returned and seated herself

by his side, touching his shoulder with her own. Then she suddenly

quivered, as if pierced by an arrow, cried out aloud, and, without

knowing herself why, kneeled down before him.

“Oh, what have you done with yourself?” she cried in despair and, rising

to her feet, embraced his neck and pressed it with all her might.

Raskólnikov reeled back and looked at her with a sad smile.

“You are a strange girl, Sónya! You embrace and kiss me, though I told

you all about it. You are beside yourself.”

“No, there is not a more unfortunate man in the whole world than you

are!” she called out, as if in a stupor, without hearing his remark, and

suddenly bursting into tears, as if in hysterics.

A long unfamiliar feeling flooded his soul and at once softened it. He

did not struggle against it: two tears rolled out of his eyes and hung

upon his lashes.

“So you will not leave me, Sónya?” he spoke, looking almost hopefully at

her.

“No, no! Never and nowhere!” Sónya cried out. “I will go with you,

anywhere you want me to! O Lord! O miserable girl that I am. Oh, why,

why did I not know you before? Why did you not come to see me before? O

Lord!”

“You see, I have come now!”

“Now! Oh, what can now be done? Both of us, both of us!” she cried out

as if oblivious and again embraced him. “I ’ll go to Siberia with you!”

Something touched him to the quick, and his former hateful and almost

supercilious smile stood upon his lips.

“Sónya, as far as that is concerned, I may not yet be ready to go to

Siberia,” he said.

Sónya cast a swift glance at him.

After her first impassioned and vexatious sympathy with the unfortunate

man, the terrible idea of the murder struck her again forcibly. She

heard the murderer in his changed tone of voice. She looked in

wonderment at him. She knew nothing as yet, neither why, nor how, nor

for what purpose. Now all these questions burst at once upon her

consciousness. And again she could not believe: “He, he a murderer! But

is that possible?”

“But what is that? Where am I?” she exclaimed in great perplexity as if

still in a trance. “But how could you, you, take that step? How was it

possible?”

“Why, to rob. Stop, Sónya!” he answered, as if exhausted and even as if

annoyed.

Sónya stood for a moment, as if struck dumb, then she suddenly cried

out:

“You had been hungry! You--to help your mother? Yes?”

“No, Sónya, no,” he muttered and turned away his drooping head, “I was

not so hungry, I really wanted to help my mother, but--that is not quite

correct either--do not torment me, Sónya!”

Sónya wrung her hands.

“But can all this be really true? Lord, is it true? Who would believe

it?---- How can it be, you give away your last, and then you kill, in

order to rob! Ah!” she suddenly cried out. “The money, the money that

you had given Katerína Ivánovna--that money--Lord, can it be that money,

too?”

“No, Sónya,” he speedily interrupted her, “not that money, calm

yourself! That money mother sent me by a merchant, and I received it

when I was sick, and that very day I gave it away. No, that was my

money, my own money.”

Sónya listened to him perplexed and was invoking all her reasoning power

in order to form a concept.

“That money--I really do not even know whether there was any money

there,” he added softly and as if lost in meditation. “I did take off a

purse, a full chamois purse, from her neck, but I did not open it to

look into it; I suppose I did not have the time for it---- There were

some other things, studs, chains, and I know not what,--I buried all

that and the purse next morning under a rock in somebody’s yard, in the

V. Prospect---- It ’s all there yet----”

Sónya was straining herself to hear.

“Then why did you do it? You said yourself, you did it to rob, and then

you did not take anything?” she quickly asked him, trying to catch at a

straw.

“I do not know--I have not yet made up my mind whether to take that

money, or not,” he spoke, as if again lost in meditation, but suddenly

regaining consciousness, his face was lit up by a swift, soft smile.

“Oh, what a lot of bosh I have been just saying, eh?”

A thought flashed through Sónya’s mind: “Maybe he is insane!” but she

immediately arrested her thought: “No, there is something else there.”

She did not understand a thing, not a thing!

“Do you know, Sónya,” he suddenly said with a kind of inspiration, “do

you know what I will tell you? If I had murdered them because I was

hungry,” he continued, accentuating every word, and enigmatically,

though sincerely, looking at her, “I would now be happy! You had better

know that! What do you care, what do you care,” he cried out after a

moment in a voice akin to despair, “what do you care for my confession,

if I were to make it, that I have done wrong? What good could such a

foolish victory of yours over me do you? O Sónya, did I now come to you

for that?”

Sónya again wanted to say something, but she kept silent.

“That ’s why I wanted you last night to be with me, because you are the

only one left to me.”

“Where did you want me to go to?” Sónya asked timidly.

“Not to steal, nor murder, don’t worry--not for that,” he smiled

sarcastically. “I only now begin to understand what I called you for

last night! Yesterday, I did not understand what I called you for. I

called you for the same purpose for which I have come to see you now:

not to leave me. You will not leave me, Sónya?”

She pressed his hand.

“Now, why did I tell her, why did I confess to her,” he cried out a

minute later in despair, looking in endless torment at her. “You are

waiting for an explanation from me, Sónya; you are sitting there and

waiting, I see it; but what am I to tell you? You won’t understand a

word of it; you will only suffer torment--for me! There, there you are

weeping and again embracing me. Why are you embracing me? Is it because

I did not bear it all myself, but came to put it on other shoulders,

that by your suffering I may feel relieved? And you can love such a

villain?”

“Are n’t you suffering yourself?” Sónya exclaimed.

The same feeling again flooded his soul, and again for a moment softened

it.

“Sónya, my heart is bad. Take a note of that, for you will be able to

explain much by it. I came because I am bad. There are some who would

not have come. But I am a coward, a villain! Well, let it be! But that

is not it!----I ought to talk now, and I do not know how to begin----”

He stopped and fell to musing.

“Bah, we don’t belong together!” he again exclaimed. “We are not a match

for each other. Why, why did I come? I shall never forgive myself!”

“No, no! It is good that you have come!” exclaimed Sónya, “it is better

that I should know, much better!”

He looked in pain at her.

“After all, why not?” he said, as if pondering over it. “It certainly

happened that way! Listen: I wanted to be a Napoleon, that ’s why I

murdered---- Well, do you understand now?”

“N--no!” Sónya muttered naïvely and timidly, “but just go on! I ’ll

understand you, I ’ll make it out!” she begged him.

“You will understand? Very well, we shall see!”

He grew silent and pondered for a long while.

“It is like this: I once asked myself what would have happened if

Napoleon had been in my place, and had had nothing with which to begin

his career, neither Toulon, nor Egypt, nor crossing Mont-Blanc; if

instead of all these beautiful and monumental things there would be

nothing but a funny old woman, a registrar’s widow, whom, in addition,

it would be necessary to kill in order to get the money out of her trunk

(for the sake of a career, you understand!),--well, would he have made

up his mind to do so, if there had been no other way? Would he have had

scruples because it is far from being monumental, and--and because it is

sinful? Well, I tell you, this ‘question’ tormented me for a dreadfully

long time, so that I felt very much ashamed when at last I guessed (it

came all of a sudden to me), that he not only would not have had any

scruples, but that it would not even have occurred to him that it was

not monumental--and that he would have been at a loss to see what he was

to have any scruples about? And if no other road had been open to him,

he would have choked her to death, without giving her a chance to cry

out, and he would not even have brooded over it. Well, I--stopped

brooding over it--killed her--following the example of my authority----

It was precisely that way! You think it is funny? Yes, Sónya, the

funniest thing about all this is that it really happened that way----”

Sónya did not think it at all funny.

“You had better tell me straight, without examples,” she begged him more

timidly and in a hardly audible voice.

He turned towards her, sadly looked at her, and took her hands.

“You are again right, Sónya. That is indeed nonsense, nothing but empty

prattle! You see: you know that my mother hardly has a thing. My sister

has somehow managed to get an education, and she is destined to wear her

life away as a governess. All their hopes were centred in me. I studied,

but was unable to support myself in the university, and was compelled to

leave it for a time. Even as it was, I still might have hoped, if

circumstances became favourable, in ten or twelve years to be a teacher

or official, with a thousand roubles yearly salary.” He spoke as if he

had learned it by heart. “In the meanwhile my mother would dry up from

cares and grief, and I should not after all succeed in making her lot

easier, while my sister--well, something worse could happen to her!----

What pleasure is there in passing all your life by things and avoiding

them, in forgetting your mother, or, say, respectfully bearing the

insult offered to your sister? What for? To bury them, to get a family

of your own, wife and children, and then to leave these too without a

penny? Well--well, so I decided to get hold of the old woman’s money, to

use it for the first few years, by providing for myself in the

university, without putting my mother to any trouble, and to use it also

for the first steps after my university career. I had decided to do it

all in a broad, radical manner, so as to provide abundantly for my new

career, and to start on a new and independent road---- Of course, it is

wrong for me to have killed that old woman--well, enough of it!”

He dragged out the story in complete exhaustion, and his head fell down

on his breast.

“Oh, it is not that, not that,” Sónya exclaimed dejectedly, “how could

one--no, not that way, not that way!”

“You see yourself that it is not so! Still I have told you the whole

truth!”

“What truth is that! O Lord!”

“I have only killed a louse, Sónya, a useless, nasty, harmful louse.”

“You call a person a louse!”

“I know myself that she is not a louse,” he answered, looking at her in

a strange manner. “However, Sónya, I am lying,--I have been lying for a

long time---- No, it is not that; you are right. No, there are

altogether different reasons!---- I have not talked to anybody for a

long time, Sónya---- My head hurts me dreadfully.”

His eyes burnt with a feverish fire. He was almost growing delirious; a

restless smile hovered on his lips. A terrible impotence could be seen

through the excited condition of his soul. Sónya understood how he was

suffering. Her own head began to whirl. And he spoke so strangely, and

yet as if one might understand, but--“How is it possible? How is it

possible, O Lord?” and she wrung her hands in despair.

“No, Sónya, it is not that!” he began again, raising his head, as if a

sudden new turn in his thoughts had struck him and roused him. “It is

not that! But rather, suppose (yes, that is better!), suppose that I am

selfish, envious, malicious, villainous, revengeful, well--if you wish

it, inclined to insanity. (Let us grant all, while we are about it! We

spoke before of insanity, it seems!) I told you long ago that I could

not keep myself at the university. But do you know, I may have been able

to after all! Mother would have sent the amount for the fees, and very

likely I could have earned enough for shoes, clothes, and bread! There

was some tutoring to do, and they offered fifty kopeks an hour. Take

Razumíkhin, he is working! But I just got mad, and did n’t want to. That

’s it, mad,--that is a good word! I then kept to my corner like a

spider. You have been in my den, you have seen it---- Do you know,

Sónya, low ceilings and small rooms oppress soul and mind! Oh, how I did

hate that den! And yet, I did not wish to leave it! I did not leave it

for days at a time, and I did not want to work, or even eat, but lay

there all the time. If Nastásya brought me anything, I would eat it; if

not,--a day might pass without eating. I was so mad, I did not ask on

purpose. During the evenings I had no candles, but lay in darkness. I

did not try to earn enough for candles. I ought to have studied, but I

had sold my books; on my notes and copybooks that are lying on the table

there is even now an inch of dust. I preferred to lie and think. And I

did nothing but think---- I had such strange visions, such peculiar

dreams, just horrible! It was then that I began to imagine that--no,

that is n’t correct! I am again telling wrong! You see, I kept on asking

myself: why am I so stupid and do not try to be wiser, when others are

stupid and I am positive that they are stupid? Then I discovered, Sónya,

that it would take a long time to wait for others to get wiser---- Then

I found out that it would never happen, that people would not change,

that nobody could change them, and that it was not worth the while

anyway! Yes, that ’s the way! That ’s their law, their law, Sónya! That

’s so!---- I know even now, Sónya, that he who is strong and mighty in

soul and mind is their master! He who dares is right in their eyes. He

who looks with contempt at most things is their lawgiver, and he who

dares most of all is most right! So it has always been, and so it will

always be! Only a blind man will refuse to see that!”

Saying this, Raskólnikov looked at Sónya, but he was no longer concerned

about her understanding him. He was in a kind of sombre rapture. He had

really not exchanged any words with anyone for a long time. Sónya

understood that that gloomy catechism was his faith and law.

“I then came to the conclusion, Sónya,” he proceeded in an ecstatic

mood, “that power is given only to him who dares to bend in order to

take it up. That is the only thing,--one must dare! Then I worked out a

thought, for the first time in my life, which no one had ever worked out

before! Nobody! It all of a sudden became clear to me as the sun that it

was very strange that, passing by all that nonsense, no one had ever

dared or would dare to take the whole business by the tail and send it

flying to the devil! I--I wanted to dare, and I killed--I only wanted to

dare. Sónya, there is the whole reason!”

“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Sónya, and wrung her hands. “You have departed

from God, and God has struck you down, and has given you over to the

devil!”

“By the way, Sónya, when I was lying in the dark and all kinds of

thoughts came to me, was it the devil that was tempting me, eh?”

“Hush! Don’t laugh, blasphemer! You do not understand anything, not a

thing! O Lord! He will not understand anything!”

“Hush, Sónya, I am not at all laughing, I know myself that the devil was

dragging me all the time. Hush, Sónya, hush!” he repeated gloomily and

with emphasis. “I know all. I thought it all over and whispered it to

myself as I was lying there in the dark--I have discussed it all with

myself, down to the finest point, and I know all, I know all! And I got

then so tired of all that prattle! I wanted to forget and begin anew,

Sónya, and stop all that nonsense! Do you really think I went headlong,

like a fool? I went like a shrewd fellow, and it is this that has been

my undoing! Or do you really think that I did not know, for example,

that the very fact that I kept on asking myself and discussing with

myself whether I had a right to have power, was in itself a proof that I

had no such right? Or, that when I put the question to myself: ‘Is man a

louse?’ man is no longer a louse, as far as I am concerned, but that he

is only a louse for him who has no doubts about it, and proceeds without

any questions? The very fact that I was vexed for several days by the

question, whether Napoleon would have gone or not, showed that I clearly

felt that I was no Napoleon---- I suffered all the torment of that

nonsense, Sónya, and I wanted to get rid of it. I wanted to kill without

casuistry, Sónya, to kill for my own sake, only for me! I did not want

to lie in this matter, not even to myself! I did not kill in order to

help mother,--that ’s bosh! I did not kill in order to get the means and

the power with which to do good to humankind. Bosh! I simply killed,

killed for my own sake, only for me. No doubt, it was all the same to me

at that moment whether I was ever to become anybody’s benefactor, or

whether I was going, like a spider, to catch them all in my cobweb in

order to suck their vital sap!---- Nor was money the main thing that I

wanted when I killed her, Sónya; not so much the money as something

else---- Now I know it all---- Understand me: if I were to go on that

road again, I should never repeat that murder. I had to find out

something else,--something else drew me on. What I had to find out

then,--and find out at once,--was whether I was a louse or a man!

Whether I should be able to transgress or not! Whether I should be able

to bend and take up or not! Whether I am a trembling creature, or

whether I have the right----”

“To kill? Whether you have the right to kill?” Sónya wrung her hands.

“Ah, Sónya!” he exclaimed excitedly; he wanted to retort something, but

contemptuously kept silent. “Do not interrupt me, Sónya! I wanted to

prove but one thing to you: that the devil was then drawing me on, and

that only later he explained to me that I had no right to go there,

because I am just the same kind of a louse as anybody else. He has had

his laugh at me, and so I have come to you now! Here is a guest for you!

If I were not a louse, would I have come to you? Listen! When I was then

going to the old woman, I only went to try--I am telling you!”

“And you killed her! You killed her!”

“How killed her? Is that the way to kill? Do people go to kill the way I

went? I ’ll tell you sometime how I went then!---- Did I kill the old

woman? I killed myself, and not the old woman! I then crushed myself for

eternity!---- The devil killed the old woman, and not I---- Enough,

Sónya, enough! Leave me alone,” he suddenly cried out in convulsive

despair, “leave me alone!”

He bent over his knees and pressed his head with his hands, as if in a

vise.

“Oh, what torment!” Sónya moaned pitifully.

“Well, what is to be done now, speak!” he asked, suddenly raising his

head and looking at her with a face that was horribly distorted by

despair.

“What is to be done!” she exclaimed, jumping up from her seat, and her

eyes that had been full of tears suddenly began to sparkle.

“Rise!” She grabbed him by his shoulder; he raised himself and looked

almost perplexed at her. “Go at once, this very minute, stand at the

cross-road, make your obeisance, first kiss the earth that you have

polluted, then bow to the whole world, on all four sides, and cry out

aloud to all, so that all may hear it: ‘I have murdered!’ Then God will

send you life again. Will you go? Will you?” she asked him, trembling as

if in a fit. She seized both his hands, pressed them tightly with her

own, and looked at him with a fiery glance.

He was perplexed and was even surprised at her sudden ecstasy.

“You are talking about Siberia, Sónya, are n’t you? If I understand you

right, I am to accuse myself,” he said gloomily.

“What is necessary is to accept the suffering and redeem yourself

through suffering.”

“No, Sónya, I won’t go to them.”

“But how are you going to live?--how are you? What are you going to live

by?” Sónya exclaimed. “Will that be possible now? How are you going to

talk to your mother? Oh, what will become of them, what will become of

them now? But what am I saying? You have already abandoned mother and

sister. You have abandoned them, you have. O Lord!” she exclaimed, “he

knows all that himself! How, pray, how can one live without people? What

will become of you?”

“Be no child, Sónya,” he softly said. “What am I guilty of in their

presence? Why should I go? What shall I tell them? That is all

visionary---- They themselves get away with people by the million, and

regard it a virtue. They are rascals and villains, Sónya!---- I won’t

go. What should I tell them?--that I have killed somebody, and that I

did not dare take the money, but hid it under a rock?” he added with a

sarcastic smile. “Why, they will themselves laugh at me, and will say:

‘He was a fool not to take the money. A coward and a fool!’ They will

understand nothing, absolutely nothing, Sónya, and they do not deserve

to understand. Why should I go? Be no child, Sónya.”

“You will worry your life away, you will worry your life away,” she

repeated, stretching out her hands to him, and imploring him with a

despairing look.

“Maybe I have incriminated myself beyond necessity,” he remarked

gloomily, as if lost in meditation, “maybe I am still a man, and not a

louse, and have been too hasty in accusing myself---- I will struggle on

for a while.”

A haughty smile lay on his closed lips.

“To bear such a torment! And it is for a lifetime, for a lifetime!”

“I ’ll get used to it,” he said morosely and pensively. “Listen,” he

began a minute later, “it ’s time to stop weeping, and think of

business. I came to tell you that they are looking for me now, and

trying to catch me----”

“Ah!” exclaimed Sónya in fright.

“Why have you cried out! You yourself wanted me to be sent to the mines,

and now you are frightened. But let me tell you: I am not going to give

myself up to them. I will struggle on, and they will do nothing. They

have no real clue. Yesterday I was in great danger, and I thought that I

was undone; but to-day things have improved. All their proofs have two

ends to them, that is, I can turn their accusations to my advantage, do

you understand? And I will do so, for I have learned a thing or two. But

they will certainly put me in jail. If it had not been for just one

incident, they would have put me in jail to-day, and maybe they still

will---- But that is nothing, Sónya. I shall stay there a while, and

then they will let me out, for they have not a single proper proof, and

there will be none,--I give you my word for it. With what they know,

they cannot hold a man. Well, that ’s enough---- I just wanted you to

know---- I shall try to fix matters with my mother and sister, so as to

allay their suspicions and fears. Besides, my sister seems to be

provided for at present, consequently mother too. Well, that ’s all.

However, you want to be cautious. Will you come to see me in jail, when

I am taken there?”

“O yes, I will, I will!”

They were sitting side by side, sorrowful and crushed, as if cast by a

storm on a desolate shore. He looked at Sónya and he felt how much her

love was upon him, and, strange to say, he suddenly had a heavy and

painful feeling because he was loved. Yes, that was a strange and

terrible sensation! As he was on his way to Sónya, he felt that all his

hope was in her. He had hoped to put away part of his sufferings, and

now that all her heart had turned to him, he suddenly felt and knew that

he was infinitely more unhappy than he had been before.

“Sónya,” he said, “you had better not come to see me in jail.”

Sónya did not answer, she was weeping.

“You won’t, will you?”

“Here, take this cypress cross. I have another, of copper, that used to

belong to Lizavéta. Lizavéta and I have exchanged crosses: she gave me

her cross, and I gave her my image. I shall now wear Lizavéta’s, and you

keep this one. Take it--it is mine! It is mine!” she begged him. “We

will suffer together, let us together bear the cross!”

“Give it to me!” said Raskólnikov. He did not wish to offend her. But he

immediately drew back the hand that he had stretched out to receive the

cross.

“Not now, Sónya. Better some other time,” he added, in order to calm

her.

“Yes, yes, better later,” she said in rapture, “when you begin your

punishment, then you will put it on. You will come to me, and I shall

put it on you; then we will pray and we shall start.”

Apollón Nikoláevich Máykov. (1821-1898.)

A. N. Máykov was the grandson of V. I. Máykov, the author of the

_Eliséy_ (see vol. i., p. 263), and the son of a well-known artist. He

passed his early childhood in the country, near Moscow, until his

family, in 1834, emigrated to St. Petersburg. Here he early came in

contact with the literary circles, and was prepared for the university

by Goncharóv (see p. 259), who was his tutor in Russian literature. At

first he devoted himself entirely to painting, and attached little

importance to his poetical talents; but his growing nearsightedness

interfered with his artistic activity, and the flattering reception of

his verses by Byelínski led him to turn his attention to poetry. In

1842 he went abroad, staying more than a year in Italy, attending the

Collège de France and the Sorbonne, and plunging into the Pan-slavic

propaganda at Prague. Upon his return he wrote a large number of

poems, dealing with his European impressions, and also some from

Russian history. He excelled in the description of classic antiquity,

which culminated in his great work, _The Two Worlds_, with _Three

Deaths_ as a kind of prologue to it; his classic knowledge appears to

great advantage in his _Anthological Poems_. Of his medieval poems may

be mentioned _Savonarola_ and _The Council of Clermont_. He kept

entirely aloof from the questions of the day, and Russian contemporary

history and life occupied but a small space in his productions: he

either betook himself to depicting scenery, as in _The Catching of the

Fish_, or to the idealisation of the past. Of his many translations,

mainly from the Slavic languages, must be especially mentioned his

admirable modernisation of _The Word of Ígor’s Armament_.

In Macmillan’s Magazine, vol. xxxiii. (1877), is given _To the Empress

of India_; in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887, are

given: _The Cornfields_, _Hay-making_, _The Mountain Spring_, _The

Idiot Girl_, _A Picture_; in John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_,

London, 1891: _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_, _Who Was He?_, _The Easter

Kiss_, _On Lomonósov_, _Propriety_, _The Singer_, _A Little Picture_,

_The Alpine Glacier_, _The Mother_, _The Kiss Refused_, _The

Snowdrop_, _A Smile and a Tear_. In The Anglo-Russian Literary

Society: by F. P. Marchant, _The Marble Faun_, in No. 19, _On

Re-reading Pushkin_, in No. 32, _The Thought_, _Hesiod_, _The Muse_,

_The Peris_, _The Hermit_, _Happy realm of youth eternal_, _When

overwhelmed by grief_, _From the Gnostics_, in No. 33; by J. Pollen,

reprint of his _A Little Picture_, in No. 33. In Free Russia are

given: by Elizabeth Gibson, _The Council of Constance_, in vol. xi.,

Nos. 8-10, and parts of the _Three Deaths_, in vol. xii., No. 4. In

the Library of the World’s Best Literature are reprinted J. Pollen’s

_The Easter Kiss_, _The Alpine Glacier_, _The Kiss Refused_.

THE PERIS

Her sins atoned by tears of sorrow,

Those penitential tears scarce dry,

The soul, by her Creator pardoned,

Flies on swift wings to realms on high.

Through starry space, the soul embracing,

White peris take their flight along,

While choirs of infant cherubs thronging

Greet her with bursts of joyous song.

Oh, with ecstatic cries of rapture

She would fill all the heavenly plains,

Would render thanks, and in rejoicing

Forget all former earthly pains!

But, circling round with curious glances

And coaxing wiles, the peris all

Entreat her, with most tender pleading,

To tell the story of her fall.

Is it their joy a soul to comfort,

From earthly trials gone up on high?

Or do they know by strange traditions

This world of sin beyond the sky?

--Transl. by F. P. Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary

Society, No. 33.

WHO WAS HE?

A STORY OF PETER THE GREAT

Upon the mighty Neva’s bank,

Along the winding woodland way,

A Horseman rode, in forest wilds

Of elms, of pine, of mosses grey.

Before him rose a Fisher’s hut;

Beneath a pine, by the blue stream,

An aged, bearded Fisherman

Was mending his boat’s broken beam.

The Horseman said, “Grandsire! Good-day!

God help thee, friend! how livest thou?

Dost thou catch much? and tell me, pray,

Where dost thou sell thy takings now?”

The old man answered sullenly,

“Are fishes in the river few?

And other market have I none

Except the town, there, close to you.

“And how am I to fish to-day?

What kind of turmoil’s here, you see!

You fight; and, in the fight, a shell

Has smashed my fishing-boat for me!”

The Horseman bounded from his horse,

Without a word the tools he grasped;

And in a twinkling planked the boat,

The rudder in the stern set fast.

“See, now, old friend, thy boat’s all right!

Out on the water boldly set;

And, in the name of Peter’s luck,

Cast forth into the deep thy net.”

He vanished. Mused the stern old man:

“I wonder who the de’il was he!

In every inch he looked a king,

But plied the hatchet splendidly.”

--From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_.

THE MARBLE FAUN

Through a deserted garden-walk I wandered in the shade,

The rosy twilight faded, and of leaves the trees all bare

In dark clusters stood around me, while the autumn evening made

The atmosphere quite chilly. Then among the thickets there

I chanced to find a statue of a faun once white and clean,

With rubbish, dust, and moss encrusted, dingy, mildewed, green.

He glanced from out the branches with a pleasant smile, and these

Set in motion gently by the wind, his strong visage swept,

While hidden from my downward glance the marble form they kept.

I saw the aged lindens shake, and lo, among the trees

Were other forms of marble that within their foliage slept.

But what of all most struck my view wrapped in the shrubs’ embrace

Was that one marble image-head and mocking, smiling face.

I admired the ancient idol, long neglected, for a while,

And the face amid the thicket threw at me a cunning smile.

I felt a kind of pity. “Thou wert held of old divine,

Image cynical and smiling! To the flute’s melodious sound

Men prepared to thee the sacrifice, for thee the flames did shine,

They uttered prayers, the lamb expired, and thou wert sprinkled round

With the fresh blood of the victim. Now, I pray thee, let me know,

Art thou sighing for the days gone by,--thy vanished power and crown?

Then upon those youthful races did a happier lot pour down?

Or have sages merely fabled of the days of long ago?

Was that tale a vain invention, of their lives of peace and joy,

Or did ceaseless labour in the field their energies employ?

Thou dost smile upon me, dost thou?--Then when dawned a later date

Thou didst gaze, a mute spectator, on a splendid court and state;

Thou wert looked on as a marvel when among the ruins found,

Then the garden was laid out for thee, and thou wert compassed round

With the tritons and the naiads, with Athenians old and wise,

And with Rome’s Imperial Cæsars and Greek Sovereigns of the skies;

Thou didst look on it with laughter, and thy pleasant visage glowed

On the ball-scene’s glitter gazing. Then the garden overflowed

With the ringing strains of music. In that alley’s gloomy shade

A pair of youthful lovers from the guests their shelter made.

Thou didst note their stolen interviews among the bushes dark,

Thou didst hear the kiss resounding, and their fond caresses mark.

Tell me further: were those lovers’ ardent pledges kept for long

Unrepentant and unbroken? Was their hearts’ love always strong,

Shining brightly, burning ever, not expiring like a spark?

Were their names and plighted promise,--on thy pedestal here traced

By precise and earnest fingers,--by the raindrops soon effaced?

Or, maybe, they wandered here again, beneath thy lindens’ shade,

Where to meet with other paramours they new appointments made?

Through the thick boughs overhanging did thy sly and sneering smile

From their amorous professions tear the treacherous mask away?

Did their faces, flushed with crimson, their deceitful hearts betray?”

────────────────────────────────────

Thus I gazed in mute inquiry on the statue for a while,

And the marble cynic answered with his calm, sarcastic smile.

--Transl. by F. P. Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary

Society, No. 19.

FROM THE LYRIC DRAMA “THREE DEATHS”

THE DEATH OF SENECA AND OF LUCIUS

(_Having embraced Seneca and Lucius, Lucan exit, in company of the

lictors._)

_Seneca_ (_wants to follow him, but stops as his disciples rush up to

him; stroking his brow, he speaks softly and solemnly_). I had but one

aim in life, and I have walked to it over a rugged path. My life has

ever been a moral school: and death is but a new lesson, a new letter,

amidst the eternal and wondrous alphabet, a pledge of a higher, endless

science! The Creator has given me a stern mind with which to scan the

universe, that what I have learned in me and it I may transmit to future

generations. He sent against me malice, monstrous and vile debauch,

that, like an oak upon the height midst storms, I might grow strong

through artful battling, that among a mass of deeds and acts I might

impress my image---- I have accomplished all. My form is cast. Yet one

more chisel’s sweep,--and proudly shall it stand through ages. The

chisel shall not quiver. Terror shall not bind my hands. My journey is

finished here,--but my spirit, made in this terrestrial life more

perfect and more wise, will enter eternity. Open is the door before me,

and I see the dawn of another life----

(_The philosopher’s friends, sobbing, embrace his knees. Looking at

them, he proceeds_:)

Life is good when in the world we are a necessary link, and one with all

the living; when at the banquet I am not superfluous; when going with

the people to the fane, I worship the same gods with them. But when the

crowd, apart from you, has raised up a divinity and with cruel malice

watches the movements of your heart; when, seeing you afar, they point

their fingers (oh, believe me, friends, it is not easy to live an

outcast wanderer!) at the remnants of better generations, with their

ancient virtue in their breast:--we pass like corpses, like shadows,

like jesters in the forum! And unobserved a mighty wind will drown us

midst the rippling waves, like worthless chips of once victorious

ships----

Our age is past. Our time is up, O brothers! Others have now come into

the world; other feelings and conceptions they have brought with

them---- Perchance, believing stubbornly in the traditions of our youth,

we, like an ominous blast, congeal the renovated lives of men.

Perhaps----the truth is not with us! Our mind no longer grasps it, and

looks up with weakened eyes, yet not ahead, nor sees the light of truth,

and wails: “No, there is no salvation!” And, perchance, another man will

come, and he will say: “Here is the light!” No! Our time is up!---- Cut

open now my arteries! O greatest of all gifts, O death, you are now in

my hands! O Socrates! O teacher! Dearest friend! To you I go!

(_Exit, accompanied by his disciples._)

_Lucius._ Well finished, Seneca! Thou borest it gloriously! And now, one

hero less!---- Looking at the man, I feel aggrieved! What matters it

that thou art dead? That to the end thy courage did not flag? For

gossips and for calumny thou hast for two days given food to Rome! In

this alone thy exploit lies!

(_Looks through the window at the sky and at the distant mountains._)

How all is quiet there! The mountains--clear---- Even thus the gods look

reckless from the heavens at the human race! And what is there to see?

(_Scans the room._)

’T is terrible here to live, and let alone--to die! But little time is

left for life. What use is there to grant one needless hour to cruel

Nemesis? For great exploits one needs a rest, a joyful mood, and--a good

supper---- Glory after death avails us not! What happiness is this that

in the future a bearded rhetorician will expound you as a model for his

schoolboys? With future mysteries I have no dealings! Or whether here my

life will come to an end, or bodiless my soul may live,--in any case I

’ll be no longer man! But now, while still I live, I may with honour

dismiss my body, my old servant---- O slave!

(_Enter slave, Lucius continuing._)

In my villa by the sea prepare a splendid supper; in the amphitheatre,

below the mountains, strew flowers on my couch; call a ballet of

Bacchantes, a chorus of Fauns----and lyres and timbrels,--not the kind

of chorus as last time, when the basso was a squeaker! Open in the

garden all the fountains. Here is the key: in the inner storeroom are

some cups of Grecian workmanship,--get them. And send at once the slaves

to call my friends. Let all come who are alive. Thyself go to Marcellus.

Ask him humbly, he has long had in keeping some Horatian wine. Tell him

that thy master begs him not to refuse him anything, and that to-day he

deigns to die! Well, think of everything--thou hast been a faithful

slave, and thou art not forgotten in my testament.

(_The slave falls down to his feet._)

Haggle not, nor be niggardly,--let the supper teem with fabulous

dainties! Yes, I have forgot the main thing: go, knock at the door of

careless Pyrrha! Take basketfuls of flowers to her and let her, laughing

heedlessly, come, brighter than springtime, to grace my supper.

(_Exit slave._)

And on the knees of the dear maid I will with tensest power of life

intoxicate my soul with the fragrance of the herbs, and with the

sleeping sea, and with the sun immerging in the waves, and Pyrrha’s

lucent beauty! And when my senses weary feasting, she will, with gentle

smiles, give to me, not knowing it herself, the deadly draught in wine,

and I will jesting die, scarce audible, a true, wise Sybarite who,

having surfeited his dainty appetite at the luxurious table, sleeps

peaceably, surrounded by aromas.

Nikoláy Aleksyéevich Nekrásov. (1821-1877.)

Nekrásov was the son of an impoverished landed proprietor who served

on the military staff, and of a Polish mother, who was his first

teacher. In 1832 he was sent to the Yarosláv Gymnasium. Here he made

little progress in the ancient languages and in mathematics, and,

having reached the fifth form, was obliged to leave on account of some

satires he had written against the school authorities. He went to St.

Petersburg and entered the university as a special student, but his

extreme poverty made any regular progress impossible and undermined

his health. He occasionally wrote prose stories for a variety of

periodicals, and in 1840 he published his first volume of poems which,

having been unfavourably received, he later bought up and destroyed.

Then he published a number of volumes of miscellaneous collections,

and in 1847 became the editor of _The Contemporary_, formerly

Púshkin’s magazine. The most active period of Nekrásov’s life began in

1856, since when he produced all the poems by which he lives. It is

difficult to characterise Nekrásov’s poetry, as it represents so many

different aspects: there are in it elegies and lyrics in Púshkin’s

best style, satires which have earned for him the name of the Russian

Juvenal, and popular verses dealing with the life of all classes of

society, especially with the peasant. The great wealth of native

scenery which he depicts, the idiomatic, inimitable language of his

poems, the objectivity of his themes, united with a graceful lyricism,

make him the most notable of Russian poets. Among his best productions

are _Red-Nosed Frost_, _Who Lives in Russia Happily?_, _The Peddlers_,

and a large number of shorter poems.

English translations: _A Moral Man_, by Alexander Koumanin, in

Cornhill Magazine, 1863; _The Forgotten Village_, _Village News_,

_Brandy_, _The Unreaped Plot_, _On the Road_, and parts of _The

Railroad_, _In the Village_, and _Red-Nosed Frost_, by W. R. S.

Ralston, in the Contemporary Review, vol. xxvii. (1876); _Red-Nosed

Frost_, translated in the original metres [by J. Sumner Smith],

Boston, 1886, second edition emended, 1887; _The Forgotten Village_,

_The Field Unreaped_, _Mary_, _The Hospital_, _The Song of the

Convicts_, _A Mother’s Tears_, in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_,

London, 1887; _Te Deum_, _The Prophet_, _Offer my Muse a friendly

hand_, _Dream_, _A Sick Man’s Jealousy_, _The Landlord of Old Times_,

_The Russian Soldier_, in John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_,

London, 1891 (_The Prophet_ and _The Russian Soldier_ reprinted in

Library of the World’s Best Literature); in Free Russia, by Charlotte

Sidgwick, _I am weak, I am old, and another_, in vol. x., Nos. 8-10,

and _The Song of the Poor Wanderer_, in vol. x., No. 12, and by Mary

Grace Walker, _War_, in vol. x., No. 11; in The Anglo-Russian Literary

Society, by A. C. Coolidge, _The Unmown Strip_ and _When from thine

error_, in No. 14 (from the Harvard Monthly Magazine, 1895); by F. P.

Marchant, _Farewell_ and _I gaz’d upon thy tomb_, in No. 16; by J.

Pollen, _’Tis May in the meadows_, in No. 19; by Leo Wiener and A. C.

Coolidge, _Who Lives Happily in Russia?_ (reprinted from Harvard

Monthly Magazine, 1898), in No. 25; by Mrs. Rosa Newmarch, some

extracts, in No. 30; by Leo Wiener, _The Railroad_, in No. 33; by L.

A. Magnus, _The Poet to his Love_, in No. 34.

FROM “RED-NOSED FROST”

Three grievous allotments had Fortune decreed:--

Allotment the first,--with a slave man to marry;

The second,--the mother to be of his seed;

The third,--until death his hard yoke e’er to carry.

And all these allotments so grievous did lie

On woman ’neath Russia’s broad sky.

The ages have passed: all for pleasure has striven;

To manifold change all on earth has been given.

The poor peasant woman alone is forgot:

No change in her lot has God made.

Of feminine beauty and strength, we all wot,

The type, ’mong the Slavs, has decayed.

Fortuitous victim of fate!

Hast suffered unseen and unheard;

The world has not told of thy strait,

Of plaining hast uttered no word.

But me thou, my friend, wilt tell all;

From childhood together we ’ve plodded:--

Fatigue and dismay on thee fall,

All misery in thee is embodied.

No heart in his breast carrieth he

Who tears doth not shed over thee.

────────────────────────────────────

We ’ve thus of the serf woman spoken,

However, with purpose to say:--

The type of the stately Slavonian,

Perhaps, may be found e’en to-day.

In Russ hamlets women are dwelling,

Of countenance earnest, serene;

In all grace of movement excelling;

In bearing and look like a queen.

Perhaps they ’ll escape the dim-sighted;

But one who can see says of them:--

“She passes--with sunshine all ’s lighted!

And looks--’t is like giving a gem!”

The paths all our people are thronging

They follow,--the same burthens bring;

But mire, to their low lot belonging,

To them as it were does not cling.

See blooming,--a world’s admiration,--

The beauty! tall, rosy, well-shaped;

Proficient in each occupation;

A beauty, however she ’s draped;

Both hunger and cold calmly brooking;

Content, ever patient, discreet.

I oft as she moved have been looking:

One flourish--a haycock complete!

Her kerchief is o’er her ear slipping,

Her tresses are ready to fall.

And then some young fellow comes tripping--

The rascal! and up throws them all:

The flaxen, luxuriant tresses

O’erspread her tanned bosom, and wrap

Her little bare feet in caresses;

Her eyes, too, in darkness entrap:

She quickly her locks apart brushes,

And fiercely a glance at him throws;

Her tress-enframed, proud face with blushes

Of passion, of hot anger glows.

On work-days she likes full employment.

But strange will to you be her face

When from it the smile of enjoyment

The sigil of toil shall erase:

Such laughter, so hearty! such measure

In song and in dance! no such treats

With gold can be purchased. “What pleasure!”

Each peasant to each oft repeats.

The horseman she ’ll vanquish in racing;

In danger, not flinching, she ’ll save:

A galloping steed boldly facing;

To enter a burning hut, brave.

Her beautiful, regular teeth

Seem pearls, when to view them one chances;

But firmly the lips’ rosy sheath

Conceals them from people’s rude glances.

She rarely indulges in laughter,

For jesting she ’s no time to spare;

Not oft dares her neighbour come after

Some item of her kitchen ware.

No pity has she for the tramp,--

Why country paths uselessly scour?

Of scrupulous fitness the stamp

She bears and of immanent power.

She knows, as ’t were writ in her creed,

In labour is all their salvation;

And labour returns her the meed:--

Her household knows never privation;

They ’ve always a warm roof o’erhead,

Bread well-baked, and kvas of good savour;

The children are healthy, well-fed;

For high-days there ’s some extra favour.

This woman goes forth Sunday morn

To mass, all her family guiding:

Is sitting a child, two years born,

Her bosom upon, and there riding:

The mother, well dressed, by the hand

Is leading her six-years-old boy.

This picture all friends of Russ land,

All friends of Russ folk will enjoy.

--From [J. Sumner Smith’s] _Red-Nosed Frost_, Boston, 1887.

A MORAL MAN

A strictly moral man have I been ever,

And never injured anybody--never.

I lent my friend a sum he could not pay,

I jogged his memory in a friendly way,--

Then took the law of him th’ affair to end,--

The law to prison sent my worthy friend.

He died there,--not a farthing for poor me!

I am not angry, though I ’ve cause to be.

His debt that very moment I forgave,

And shed sad tears of sorrow o’er his grave.

A strictly moral man have I been ever,

And never injured anybody--never.

I sent my slave to learn the art of dressing

Meat;--he succeeded,--a good cook ’s a blessing;

But he too oft would leave his occupation,

And gained a taste not suited to his station.

He liked to read, to reason, and discuss--

I, tired of scolding, without further fuss

Had the rogue flogged,--all for the love of him:

He went and drowned himself,--’t was a strange whim.

A strictly moral man have I been ever,

And never injured anybody--never.

My silly daughter fell in love one day,

And with her tutor wished to run away:

I threatened curses and pronounced my ban;

She yielded, and espoused a rich old man.

Their house was splendid, brimming o’er with wealth,

But suddenly poor Mary lost her health,

And in a year consumption wrought her doom:

She left us mourning o’er her early tomb.

A strictly moral man have I been ever,

And never injured anybody--never.

--By Alexander Koumanin, in Cornhill Magazine, 1863.

FROM “WHO LIVES IN RUSSIA HAPPILY”

EPILOGUE

What year it was,--you figure out!

What land it was,--you guess yourself!

Upon a level country road

Were gathered seven muzhíks:

They all had masters whom they served

I’ the Government of Strained-too-hard,

The county called Enduring-much,

The district Fallowlandedness,

In villages hard by:

In Patchedupville and Raggedtown,

In Emptyville and Freezingtown,

In Burnedupville, and Hungerville,

And in Cropfailingthorpe;

They met and quarrelled straight away:

“Who lives in Russia happily

And to his heart’s content?”

Román declared--“The landowner,”

Demyán declared--“The bureaucrat,”

Luká declared--“The priest.”

“The merchant with his goodly paunch,”

The Gúbin brothers both declared,

Iván and Mitrodór.

But old Pakhóm looked gloomily

Upon the ground, and said at last:

“The gentleman of noble birth,

The minister of the Emperor,”

While Prov declared: “The Tsar.”----

Muzhíks are stubborn like the ox:

Let any nonsense fill their heads,

You cannot pound it out of them,

Each one sticks to his mind.

They started such a loud dispute

That all the passers-by averred

They must have found a treasure-trove,

The fuss is--to divide.

That forenoon each had left his house,

On business each had sallied out:

One to the blacksmith’s shop was bound,

One to the town Ivánkovo

To call the priest Prokópius,

His baby to baptise.

Pakhóm was taking honeycombs

To market in Velíkoë,

And both the brothers Gúbin had

With bridle started out to catch

The wild horse of the herd.

’T were better that they long ago

Had gone each one where business called,

Yet they together keep!

They walk as if there were grey wolves

Behind them, chasing after them,--

The farther, quicker still;

They walk, they brawl unceasingly;

They cry and do not come to sense,

But time waits not for them.

They quarrelled on, they did not see

The sun was red, was sinking fast,--

The evening had set in.

In faith, they would have walked all night,

They would have walked not knowing where,

If pockmarked old Durándikha

Had not addressed them, meeting them,

And spoken to them: “Gentlemen!

As night has come upon you, where

Do you intend to go?”----

The old witch asked, then laughed aloud;

She struck her gelding with a whip,

And galloped out of sight.

Where were they? As they gazed around,

They did not know themselves;

They stood, they paused, they drooped their heads,----

’T was night-time long ago,

The stars were twinkling way above

Upon the vaulted sky.

The moon swam out, the shadows dark

Stopped further headlong gait.

O shadows, shadows black and thick!

Who is there that you will not catch?

Of whom will you not get ahead?

And yet there ’s no one, shadows black,

Can seize you and embrace!

Into the wood and down the road

Pakhóm looked round him silently;

He looked, he pondered in his mind,

And then at last he said:

“The wood spirit has played on us

A pretty joke to-night!

Indeed we must have surely tramped

Some thirty versts[17] at least;

And, as for walking home again,--

We ’re tired, we should peter out.

Sit down--there ’s nothing to be done--

Let ’s rest till break of day!”----

Then blaming loud the wood spirit,

Beside the road, right in the wood,

The peasants sat them down.

They made a fire, each did his part,

And two of them for vódka[18] went,

The while the others to the wood

Repaired to make a drinking cup

Of bark stripped from the birch.

The vódka came in proper time;

There also somehow came some food,--

A feast for the muzhíks!

Three glasses each man had to drink;

They ate,--they quarrelled once again:

“Who lives in Russia happily

And to his heart’s content?”

Román cried out: “The landowner,”

Demyán cried out: “The bureaucrat,”

Luká cried out: “The priest”;

“The merchant with his goodly paunch,”--

The Gúbin brothers both cried out,

Iván and Mitrodór.

Pakhóm cried out: “His Excellence,

The gentleman of noble birth,

The minister of the Emperor,”

And Prov cried out: “The Tsar!”

Thus worse than ever brawled again

The quarrelsome muzhíks;

They cursed, they called each other names,

Till soon enough they came to blows,

And grabbed each other’s hair.

Look! as each one has grabbed the next,

Román is hitting at Pakhóm,

Demyán hits at Luká,

And both the brothers Gúbin hit

At Prov--while each one yells.

The far-resounding echo woke,

And rolling wandered on and on,

And louder cried from side to side,

As if to tease, to imitate,

The obstinate muzhíks.

“The Tsar!” it spoke to the right of them,

But to the left the answer came:

“The priest! The priest! The priest!”

Then all the wood was full of fright:

The very birds that flit about,

The very beasts, the swift-footed,

The very crawling, creeping things,--

’T was groan and roar and bawl.

The grey-haired rabbit, first of all,

From out the bush jumped suddenly

And looked around distractedly,--

He jumped and disappeared.

The youthful jackdaws perched aloft

Upon a birch-tree standing near

Set up a piteous squeak.

And in the neighbouring peewit’s home

The baby from its mother’s nest

Was scared and tumbled out.

The little peewit chirped and wept:

Where is her birdie gone?

The old and feeble cuckoo woke,

Awoke and sat there wondering

If she should cuckoo now;

Ten times, at least, she made a start,

But every time she lost the beat,

And had to start again----

You cuckoo, cuckoo, dear old bird!

As soon as wheat is in the ear

You ’ll choke yourself with wheaten ears,[19]

You ’ll cuckoo then no more.

Next, seven horncoots from all sides

Have gathered to enjoy the fight,--

They peer from seven trees:

These midnight ones are laughing loud;

Their large round eyes of yellow hue

Are burning just like fourteen lights

Of pure and virgin wax.

The raven, bird of common-sense,

Is here and sitting on a tree

Beside the burning fire;

He sits and to the devil prays

That they may somehow pound to death

At least one of the lot.

The cow, that with her bell had strayed

Away that evening from the herd,

Approached, attracted by the sound

Of human voices’ tones.

She slowly walked up to the fire,

She stared at the muzhíks.

She listened to their foolish talk,

And then began with all her might

To low, to low, to low.

The silly cow is lowing loud,

The youthful jackdaws squeak and pipe,

The seven muzhíks are boisterous,--

The echo seconds all.

The echo has but this desire:

To tease an honest man, to scare

A woman or a child.

No one has ever seen it yet,

But all have heard it more than once:

Without a body--yet it lives,

Without a tongue--it cries.

The owl, a Moscow princess once,[20]

Is flitting here from side to side;

She flies above the peasants’ heads,

Or with her wings sweeps o’er the ground

Or o’er the bush nearby.

The fox himself, of crafty mind,

With womanish curiosity

Crept close to the muzhíks.

He listened, listened carefully,

And went away at last convinced--

“The Deuce can’t make it out”;

The brawlers hardly knew themselves,--

They had forgotten by that time

The cause of all the row.

They hit each other lustily,

Came to their senses finally,--

Agreed to strike no more.

They drank some water from the pool,

They washed themselves, refreshed themselves,

And sleepiness set in.

--Transl. by L. Wiener, revised by A. C. Coolidge, in The Harvard

Monthly, January, 1898, and in The Anglo-Russian Literary

Society, No. 25.

[17] A verst is about three-fifths of a mile.

[18] The national liquor in Russia, consumed in large quantities.

[19] According to a popular superstition in Russia the cuckoo is

silent when the wheat is in the ear.

[20] A Russian legend.

THE UNMOWN STRIP

Late in the autumn, the rooks are diverted;

Bare is the forest, the field is deserted.

Only one strip which is lying unmown:

Sad are its musings in stillness alone.

“Truly,” each blade to the other is sighing,

“Weary are we of the autumn wind crying:

Weary of bowing to earth as we must,

Burying our grain-laden heads in the dust.

Scarce is it night, when the birds flocking near us

Halt on their passage to greedily tear us.

Hares tread us down, and the storm vents its hate.--

Where is our peasant? What more does he wait?

Were we, then, worse at our birth than all others?

Have we not sprouted and grown like our brothers?

No! We ’re not worse than the rest. Long in vain

In us hath germed and hath ripened the grain.

Was it for this he was ploughing and sowing,

That we should bend to the autumn gales blowing?”

Borne on the breeze the sad answer came back:

“It is the power your peasant doth lack.

He knew the why of his ploughing and sowing,

Started his work, but his strength all unknowing.

Ill fares the wight, he can drink not nor eat;

For his sick heart is the canker-worm’s seat.

And the strong arms that his plough used to guide him,

Dried to dead stalks, now like whips hang beside him.

Dim were his eyes, and his voice hollow rang;

Mournful indeed was the song that he sang

When with his hand at the plough ever present,

Wrapped in his thoughts, o’er the strip moved the peasant.”

--By A. C. Coolidge, in The Harvard Monthly, 1895.

A MOTHER’S TEARS

With each fresh victim in the strife,

When war’s dire terrors round us roll,

I pity neither friend, nor wife,

I pity not the heroic soul.

The wife will soon new comfort gain,

His friend the best of friends forget,

And scarce a single soul remain,

That, until death, remembers yet.

Amid the poor, prosaic round

Of things, which here so falsely show,

No tears are true, and sacred, found,

Save such as from a mother flow.

The sons, in battlefield who sleep,

Her tears to memory fond recall;

E’en like to willow-trees, which weep

O’er boughs, that ever earthward fall.

--From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_.

Iván Sávich Nikítin. (1824-1861.)

Nikítin was born in Vorónezh, the birthplace of Koltsóv (see p. 176),

where his father was a chandler. At eight years of age he entered a

religious school, and later, in 1841, the Seminary in his native town.

He wrote his first poem while at school, but only in 1853 did he

succeed in having his verses printed in the Vorónezh Governmental

Gazette. These brought him in contact with the local cultured society

who encouraged him to write more. His first volume of collected poetry

was not favourably received by the literary circles of St. Petersburg,

who saw in Nikítin’s verses mere imitations of Koltsóv and Nekrásov;

his reputation has, however, risen since, and he is counted among the

better popular poets. Among his best verses are _The Ploughman_, _The

Plough_, _The Wife of the Driver_, _The Fist_, while such poems as

_The Morning_, _The Swallow’s Nest_, _A Winter Night in the Village_,

belong to the most popular of Russian songs.

W. R. S. Ralston, in Contemporary Review, vol. xxiii. (1874), has

translated _The Stubborn Father_, _Burlák_, _A Winter Night in the

Village_. In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_ are translated _The

Yamshchik’s Wife_, _The Grandfather_, _The State of the Departed_,

_The Churchyard_. In The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 28, F. P.

Marchant translated _The Inheritance_, and in No. 30 Mrs. Rosa

Newmarch gives a part of _The Village Money-Lender_ and _The Gaffer_.

BURLÁK[21]

Ah, friends! You too have had your sorrows,--else

A song would never make you weep. Well now,

Just hear what I have gone through,--then you ’ll know

What sorrow really means.

My father died

When I was just nineteen, and I was left

An orphan, and at first alone,--but soon

A neighbour’s daughter won my heart; I pleased her,

And we were married,--happily did we live

Together. I could fancy she had brought me

Happiness with her--(Heaven be hers, poor thing!)

You can’t conceive how good a manager

She was,--she would n’t waste a single farthing.

In the long winter evenings, she would light

A firewood splinter, and then spin away

For hours,--not pausing till the cock would crow.

Then would she lay her down,--but with the dawn

She was up again,--would run to give their food

To the sheep and cows,--next light the fire,--and then

Betake her to the spinning-wheel again,

Or find some other indoor work to do.

When summer came, she helped to cut the rye

And carry it, nor ever weary. I would say,

“Is n’t it time to rest?”

“Oh, no!” she ’d cry,

“I ’m not a bit tired.”--

Every now and then

Perhaps I ’d buy her something as a present.

“You need n’t have done that, my bonny bird,”

She ’d say, “we love each other much too well

To care for presents--don’t go wasting money

On me.”--

My life with her was just as if

I ’d been in Paradise.

But no one knows

How calamity may fall upon him!

My wife lay down to rest within the grave,--

The world grows dark whene’er I think of it.

My only consolation was my child,--

I ’d only one,--a fair-skinned, dark-haired boy,

As like his mother as one drop to another;--

He had begun to spell a bit already,

And I to think, “My boy will be a man.”

But that was not God’s pleasure.--In the spring

He got some kind of sickness. We called in

Wise women, soothsayers, had magic drinks

For him to take. I promised I would give

A rouble for a candle,--to be burnt

Before the holy image in the church----

But God refused to listen to my prayer--

I had to lay my darling in the coffin,

And bear him to the graveyard.----

In those days,

Those dreary days, ’t was bitter for me, friends!

My heavy arms hung listlessly,--my neighbours

Gathered their harvest. All the fields around

Were blithe with song--But there I pined away

With heavy sorrow. When the day was done,

The heavy-laden carts would come from the field

And in a line drive creaking through the village.

But in my cottage I would sit alone

Trying to stem my tears.

The autumn passed.

I waited till the first snow fell.--Methought

I ’ll sell my rye, fit up a sledge, and go

And earn a living with it somewhere.

Suddenly

Woe upon woe! A murrain seized my cattle,--

Never until I die shall I forget

That fatal year.--

I managed to get through

The winter somehow. But I saw I ’d lost

My old position. In our village meetings,

This one would flout me, saying:--“Good! It seems

The barest beggar thinks he has the right

To meddle in the business of the Commune!”

That one would gird at me behind my back,

And cry:--“The lazy fellow! Such a one as he

Will never gain his bread. In my opinion,

If one ’s a man, one never will give way,

Whatever happens.”

All this talk and laughter

Aroused me;--God assisted me, I think.

I felt a longing for a freer life.

I got a passport, paid up all my taxes,

And joined the bargemen.

Since that time my grief

Has yielded to the Vólga’s dark blue wave----

Rest follows toil: upon the river side

Bright burns the evening fire,--a comrade starts

A song,--the rest join in,--your spirits rise,--

A thrill runs o’er your limbs,--you sing yourself.

And if at times a dreary season comes,

And half-forgotten sorrows vex your soul,--

There ’s solace still. You hear the river’s roar,

Singing a freedom to the sweeping plain.

Fast beats your heart;--you burn,--though wintry cold

The weather, yet you want no cloak to warm you.

Aboard and take your seat! Fall back on the oar!

Pleasant it is to brave the Russian storm.

The waves run mountain-high,--in snowy flakes

The foam flies fast; strange voices groan and wail.

The tempest roars and whistles,--from your soul

A cry arises: “Let God’s will be done.

If we ’re to live, we ’ll live. And if to die,--

Well then, so be it!” And you feel as though

Your heart had never known what sorrow meant.

--From W. R. S. Ralston’s _Russian Idylls_, in The Contemporary

Review, 1874 (vol. xxiii.).

[21] A labourer towing boats up the Vólga.

THE GAFFER

Old Gaffer, with his beard and smooth bald head,

Sits in his chair.

His little mug of water, and his bread,

Stand near him there.

Grey as a badger he: his brow is lined;

His features worn.

He ’s left a world of cark and care behind,

Since he was born.

’T is over now, his eyesight soon must go;

His strength is done.

Death laid within the churchyard long ago

Grandchild and son.

A cat the smoke-grimed hut with Gaffer shares--

Upon the stove

All day he sleeps. He too is old, nor cares

From thence to move.

The old man still plaits shoes, with fingers slow,

From bark of birch.

His wants are few, his greatest joy to go

Into God’s church.

He stands within the porch, against the wall,

Mutt’ring his prayers.

A loyal child, he thanks the Lord for all

Life’s griefs and cares.

Cheery he lives,--with one foot in the grave,--

In his dark hole.

Whence does he draw the strength that keeps him brave,

Poor peasant soul?

--Transl. by Mrs. R. Newmarch, in The Anglo-Russian Literary

Society, No. 30.

Aleksyéy Nikoláevich Pleshchéev. (1825-1894.)

Pleshchéev was the most cultivated and the most sympathetic poet who

belonged to Nekrásov’s camp. He was born in the city of Kostromá, of

an ancient noble family. He studied at St. Petersburg at the School of

the Guard Cadets and at the university, without graduating from

either. He began writing poetry at the age of eighteen, and in 1846

appeared the first edition of his poems. These were pervaded by a

militant spirit of liberty, and soon his sympathies with the liberal

movement brought him into trouble, for he was arrested in 1849 and

banished to Orenbúrg, with loss of all his civil rights. He there

served in the army as a common soldier, but rose in 1858 to the rank

of a commissioned officer, when his privileges were restored to him,

and he was permitted to return to Moscow. Up to that time he had

entirely abandoned literature, but now his former activity began anew,

and he enriched Russian letters with a large number of translations

from various languages, and with original lyrical verses. These no

longer are filled with the aspirations of his youth, but bear the

imprint of melancholy disappointment and renunciation.

_Spring_ and _Passion_ are given in John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the

Russian_, and N. H. Dole has translated _A Legend_ (publication

unascertainable).

FORWARD

Forward, without fear or doubt, to the valiant deed, my friends! I have

already seen the dawn of the holy redemption in the skies!

Courage! We will take each other’s hands and boldly will move

onward,--and let our union grow and be strong under the banner of

science!

We will chastise the priests of sin and falsehood with the word of

truth,--and we will awaken the sleeping from their sleep and will lead

the host to battle.

We will not build an idol for ourselves, either upon earth, or in

heaven; we will not fall before it in the dust for all the gifts and

benefits of the world.

We will proclaim the teaching of Love to the poor and to the rich,--and

for it we will endure persecution, forgiving our malevolent enemies.

Blessed is he who has exhausted his life in a sanguinary struggle, in

heavy cares; he has not, like an indolent and tricky slave, buried his

talent in the ground!

Let holy truth burn as a guiding star for us,--and, believe me, a noble

voice will not resound in vain in the world.

Hearken, then, O brothers, to the word of a brother, as long as we are

full of youthful strength! Forward, forward,--and without returning,

whatever fate may have in store for us!

MY COUNTRY

Scanty Nature of my native land, you are dear to my sad soul! Formerly,

in the days of my fleeting spring, the distant shores of other countries

enticed me.

And my glowing imagination painted brilliant pictures before me: I saw

the transparently blue vault of the heavens, and the crenelated summits

of mighty mountains.

Merged in the gold of midday beams, it seemed to me, the myrtle, the

planes, and the olive trees called me into the shade of spreading

branches, and roses beckoned silently to me----

Those were days when my spirit did not ponder, among the seductions of

life, over the aims of existence, and, being frivolous, I only demanded

enjoyment from it.

But that time speedily disappeared without a trace,--and grief

unexpectedly visited me, and much with which my soul was not familiar

suddenly became dear to it.

I then abandoned my secret dream of a magic and distant land,--and in my

country I discovered beauties invisible to the worldly eye.

Furrowed fields, ears of yellow grain-fields, the speechless, majestic

expanse of the steppes, the freshets of broad rivers in the spring,

mysteriously rustling oak-forests;

Sacred silence of poor villages, where the labourer, oppressed by

misery, prayed to heaven for a new, a better day,--the great day of

liberty, to rise over him;

I understood you then,--and near to my heart suddenly grew the song of

my native land, whether in that song was heard deep pining or

unrestrained hilarity.

My country, nothing in thee captivates the stranger’s eye; but thou art

dear by thy stern beauty to him who himself has yearned for freedom and

the wide expanse, and whose spirit has borne oppressive fetters.

A LEGEND

Christ, when a child, a garden made,

And many roses flourished there.

He watered them three times a day

To make a garland for His hair;

And when in time the roses bloomed,

He called the children in to share.

They tore the flowers from every stem,

And left the garden stript and bare.

“How wilt Thou weave Thyself a crown

Now that Thy roses are all dead?”

“Ye have forgotten that the thorns

Are left for me,” the Christ-child said.

They plaited then a crown of thorns,

And laid it rudely on His head,--

A garland for His forehead made;

For roses, drops of blood instead.

--Transl. by N. H. Dole (publication unascertainable).

SPRING

Ah! who art thou, fair maid, with upland flowers

Twined in the glossy silk of golden hair,

With smile sunbright, with eyes the dove in hue,

With ray-like raiment spun from upper air?

Who gifted thee with deep mysterious power

To heal the aching heart of human woe?

At thy approach delights that long lay dead

Revive, and once again with glad life glow.

To honour thee a hymn doth Nature raise;

The babbling brooks and birds in chorus blend;

And pine-woods dark, shimmering in every spray,

To thee, as to a friend, their arms extend.

I ’m but a Stranger-Guest, sent from on high

To weary souls a draught of peace to bring,

To soften wrath, to soothe fierce enmity;

I ’m but a Stranger-Guest,--they call me “Spring.”

--From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_.

Aleksándr Nikoláevich Ostróvski. (1823-1886.)

No other dramatist is so characteristically Russian as Ostróvski. His

father was a poor scribe who acted as a kind of attorney to that

merchant class of Moscow which had not yet emerged from the manners

and beliefs preceding the days of the reforms of Peter the Great.

Ostróvski had, consequently, ample opportunity of getting acquainted

with these people, who had heretofore entirely escaped the scrutiny of

the litterateurs. When, in 1843, he was expelled from the university

for some misbehaviour, he found employment in the Commercial Court,

where he again came in contact with the merchant class. He had early

developed a passion for the theatre, and in 1847 appeared two of his

dramas, _Pictures of Family Happiness_ and _We’ll Square up Accounts

with Our Own_. The latter play gave offence to the merchants, who

complained to the authorities, and Ostróvski was placed under police

surveillance. Only five years later did he take up his pen again, and

as before he had strictly adhered to the traditions of Gógol’s school,

so now he paid his tribute to the Slavophile sentiments of Moscow by

idealising his characters. The best drama of that period is _Poverty

is no Vice_. After the Crimean War he began to represent in his dramas

the negative sides of the wealthy merchant class, and to oppose to

them the honesty and dignity of intelligent men. His chief production,

_The Storm_, belongs to that period. He also tried himself in

historical dramas, or _Dramatic Chronicles_, as he called them, but

they are the weakest of his works. All his dramas are more properly

realistic scenes lacking the element of conscious effect: they are

supremely natural and tax the ability of the greatest actors.

Ostróvski’s dramas soon became very popular, and he was elected

president of the Society of Russian Dramatic Authors. Just before his

death the Moscow Theatre was put in his charge, but his new activity

was cut short by his illness, brought about by years of privation and

suffering.

In English translation are to be found: _The Storm_, by Constance

Garnett, London, 1899; _Incompatibility of Temper_ and _A Domestic

Picture_, in _The Humour of Russia_, by E. L. Voynich, London and New

York, 1895. Extracts from several dramas are given in _The Modern

Russian Drama_, in Edinburgh Review, cxxviii. (1868).

THE STORM

ACT V. SCENE 1. TWILIGHT. KULÍGIN (_sitting on a bench_), KABANÓV

(_walking in the square_)

_Kulígin_ (_singing_).

“In darkness shrouded are the skies,--

To rest themselves all close their eyes.”

(_noticing Kabanóv_). Good-evening, sir! Which way are you bound?

_Kabanóv._ Home. Good friend, have you heard what has happened with us?

Our whole family is upset.

_Kulígin._ Yes, I have heard so, sir.

_Kabanóv._ I have been away to Moscow, you know. Mamma kept giving me

all kinds of instructions for my journey, but no sooner I got away, than

I began having a good time. I was so happy to be free. I drank all the

way up, and I kept on drinking in Moscow. I just went on a spree to last

me for a whole year! Not even once did I stop to think of home, and if I

did, I never should have dreamed what has happened here. You have heard

about it?

_Kulígin._ Yes, I have, sir.

_Kabanóv._ My friend, I am a miserable man now! I am ruined just for

nothing, for no cause at all.

_Kulígin._ Your mother is rather harsh.

_Kabanóv._ That ’s so. She is the cause of it all. Do tell me, why

should I suffer for it? I just stopped at Dikóy’s,--well, we took a

drink together; I thought it might make me feel easier, but no, Kulígin,

it ’s worse! See, how my wife has treated me! It could not be worse----

_Kulígin._ It ’s a mixed-up affair, sir. It is hard to judge between

you.

_Kabanóv._ No, don’t say that. What can there be worse? It is not enough

to kill her for that. Mamma says she ought be buried alive for a

punishment! But I love her, and it makes me feel bad to lay a finger

upon her. I did give her some blows, but mamma told me to do so. You

must understand, Kulígin, that I feel sorry for her. Mamma torments her

to death, and she walks around like a shadow and does not say a word.

She does nothing but weep, and she is melting away like wax. And I worry

myself to death, as I look at her.

_Kulígin._ Could you not, sir, make up with her? You ought to forgive

her, and never mention the affair again. I suppose you yourself are not

without sin!

_Kabanóv._ Of course not!

_Kulígin._ Only you must not reproach her when you are drunk! She would

make you a good wife, sir, I am sure, better than any other.

_Kabanóv._ Don’t you see, Kulígin, it is all right with me, but

mamma--there is no getting along with her!----

_Kulígin._ It is time, sir, to live by your own wits.

_Kabanóv._ Well, what am I to do,--to tear myself to pieces? They say, I

have no sense of my own, and so I have to live by other people’s sense.

I tell you, I ’ll drink away whatever little sense I have left, let

mamma then bother with me as with a senseless fool.

_Kulígin._ It is bad, sir! Well, and Borís Grigórevich, what about him?

_Kabanóv._ They are sending that scoundrel to Kyákhta, into China. His

uncle is sending him to the office of a merchant whom he knows there. He

is going there for three years.

_Kulígin._ Well, what does he do, sir?

_Kabanóv._ He is suffering, too: he weeps. We fell upon him, his uncle

and I, and we kept scolding him, but he did not say a word. He acts like

a wild man. “Do with me what you please,” says he, “only do not torment

her!” He is pitying her too.

_Kulígin._ He is a good man, sir.

_Kabanóv._ He is ready for the journey, and the horses are waiting. He

is pining for her dreadfully. He wants to say good-bye to her, I see.

What do I care? He has done enough harm. He is my enemy, you know,

Kulígin! He ought to be quartered, so that he might know----

_Kulígin._ We must forgive our enemies, sir!

_Kabanóv._ Go and talk to mamma about that, and see what she will tell

you. Yes, friend Kulígin, all our family is now broken up. They are

acting not like relatives to each other, but like enemies. Mamma has

been nagging Várvara so long; she could stand it no longer, and so she

just got up, and ran away.

_Kulígin._ Where has she gone?

_Kabanóv._ Who knows? They say she has run away with Vánka Kudryásh, and

he can’t be found anywhere either. Now, Kulígin, I must tell you that is

all mamma’s doing: she has been tormenting her, and locking her up.

“Don’t lock me up,” she said, “or it will be only worse!” And just so it

has happened. Do tell me, what I am to do now! Do instruct me how to

live now! I loathe the house, I am ashamed to meet people, and if I try

to work, my hands drop helpless. Here I am going home, but it is not to

find pleasure there. (_Enter Glásha._)

_Glásha._ Tíkhon Iványch!

_Kabanóv._ What is it now?

_Glásha._ Things have gone wrong at home, sir!

_Kabanóv._ Lord! There has been enough trouble! Speak, what is it?

_Glásha._ Your good wife----

_Kabanóv._ Well, what? Is she dead?

_Glásha._ No, sir, she has gone off, and we can’t find her anywhere. We

have run our legs off, trying to find her.

_Kabanóv._ Kulígin! We must look for her. Do you know, friend, what I am

afraid of? That in her wretchedness she may lay hands upon herself! It

is just terrible, how she is grieving! It makes my heart burst to look

at her. (_To Glásha._) That is the way you have watched her. Is it long

she has been gone?

_Glásha._ Not very long, sir! It is our fault, we did not watch her

better. However, one can’t be watching every minute.

_Kabanóv._ Well, what are you standing for? Go, run! (_Exit Glásha._)

Let us go, too, Kulígin! (_Exeunt. The stage is empty for a little

while. From the opposite side enters Katerína, and slowly walks across

the stage._)