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diff --git a/old/54991-8.txt b/old/54991-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 9332d32..0000000 --- a/old/54991-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4186 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Alexander Pushkin - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Poems - With Introduction and Notes - -Author: Alexander Pushkin - -Contributor: Ivan Panin - -Translator: Ivan Panin - -Release Date: June 27, 2017 [EBook #54991] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** - - - - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at Free Literature (online soon -in an extended version, also linking to free sources for -education worldwide ... MOOC's, educational materials,...) -Images generously made available by the Internet Archive. - - - - - -POEMS - -BY - -ALEXANDER PUSHKIN - -Translated from the Russian, with Introduction and Notes - -BY IVAN PANIN - -BOSTON - -CUPPLES AND HURD - -94 BOYLSTON STREET - -1888 - - - TO - - MRS. JOHN L. GARDNER, - -WHO WAS THE FIRST TO RECOGNIZE HELPFULLY - WHATEVER MERIT THERE IS IN - THIS BOOK. - - - - - CONTENTS - - - BIBLIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE - - Introduction. - - I. POETIC IDEAL - - II. INNER LIFE - - III. GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS - - - Autobiographical Poems. - - MON PORTRAIT - MY PEDIGREE - MY MONUMENT - MY MUSE - MY DEMON - REGRET - REMINISCENCE - ELEGY - RESURRECTION - THE PROPHET - - Narrative Poems. - - THE OUTCAST - THE BLACK SHAWL - THE ROUSSALKA - THE COSSAK - THE DROWNED - - Poems of Nature. - - THE BIRDLET - THE CLOUD - THE NORTH WIND - WINTER MORNING - WINTER EVENING - THE WINTER-ROAD - - Poems of Love. - - THE STORM-MAID - THE BARD - SPANISH LOVE-SONG - LOVE - JEALOUSY - IN AN ALBUM - THE AWAKING - ELEGY - FIRST LOVE - ELEGY - THE BURNT LETTER - "SING NOT, BEAUTY" - SIGNS - A PRESENTIMENT - "IN VAIN, DEAR FRIEND" - LOVE'S DEBT - INVOCATION - ELEGY - SORROW - DESPAIR - A WISH - RESIGNED LOVE - LOVE AND FREEDOM - NOT AT ALL - INSPIRING LOVE - THE GRACES - - Miscellaneous Poems. - - THE BIRDLET - THE NIGHTINGALE - THE FLOWERET - THE HORSE - TO A BABE - THE POET - TO THE POET - THE THREE SPRINGS - THE TASK - SLEEPLESSNESS - QUESTIONINGS - CONSOLATION - FRIENDSHIP - FAME - THE ANGEL - HOME-SICKNESS - INSANITY - DEATH-THOUGHTS - RIGHTS - THE GYPSIES - THE DELIBASH - - NOTES - - - - - -Preface: Bibliographical. - - -1. The text I have used for the following translations is that of the -edition of the complete works of Pushkin in ten volumes, 16mo., by -Suvorin, St. Petersburg, 1887. The poems form Volumes III. and IV. -of that edition. Accordingly, I have designated after each heading, -volume, and page where the poem is to be found in the original. Thus, -for example, "My Muse, IV. 1," means that this poem is found in Volume -IV. of the above edition, page 1. - -2. I have translated Pushkin literally word for word, line for line. I -do not believe there are as many as five examples of deviation from the -literalness of the text. Once only, I believe, have I transposed two -lines for convenience of translation; the other deviations are (_if_ -they are such) a substitution of an _and_ for a comma in order to make -now and then the reading of a line musical. With these exceptions, I -have sacrified _everything_ to faithfulness of rendering. My object was -to make Pushkin himself, without a prompter, speak to English readers. -To make him thus speak in a foreign tongue was indeed to place him -at a disadvantage; and music and rhythm and harmony are indeed fine -things, but truth is finer still. I wished to present not what Pushkin -would have said, or should have said, if he had written in English, -but what he does say in Russian. That, stripped from all ornament of -his wonderful melody and grace of form, as he is in a translation, he -still, even in the hard English tongue, soothes and stirs, is in itself -a sign that through the individual soul of Pushkin sings that universal -soul whose strains appeal forever to man, in whatever clime, under -whatever sky. - -3. I ask, therefore, no forgiveness, no indulgence even, from the -reader for the crudeness and even harshness of the translation, -which, I dare say, will be found in abundance by those who _look_ for -something to blame. Nothing of the kind is necessary. I have done the -only thing there was to be done. Nothing more _could_ be done (I mean -by me, of course), and if critics still demand more, they must settle -it not with me, but with the Lord Almighty, who in his grim, yet arch -way, long before critics appeared on the stage, hath ordained that it -shall be impossible for a thing to be and not to be at the same time. - -4. I have therefore tried neither for measure nor for rhyme. What I -have done was this: I first translated each line word for word, and -then by reading it aloud let mine ear arrange for me the words in such -a way as to make some kind of rhythm. Where this could be done, I was -indeed glad; where this could not be done, I was not sorry. It is idle -to regret the impossible. - -5. That the reader, however, may see for himself what he has been -spared by my abstinence from attempting the impossible, I give -one stanza of a metrical translation by the side of the literal -rendering:-- - -LITERAL: - - The moment wondrous I remember - Thou before me didst appear, - Like a flashing apparition, - Like a spirit of beauty pure. - -METRICAL:[1] - - Yes! I remember well our meeting, - When first thou dawnedst on my sight, - Like some fair phantom past me fleeting, - Some nymph of purity and light. - -Observe, Pushkin the real does not appear before the reader with a -solemn affirmation, Yes, or No, nor that he remembers it _well_. He -tells the story in such a way that the reader knows without being told -that he does indeed remember it well! Nor does he weaken the effect by -saying that he remembers the _meeting_, which is too extended, but the -_moment_, which is concentrated. And Pushkin's imagination was moreover -too pure to let a _fleeting_ phantom _dawn_ upon his sight. To have -tried for a rendering which necessitated from its very limitations -_such_ falsities, would have been not only to libel poor Pushkin, but -also to give the reader poor poetry besides. - -[Footnote 1: Blackwood's Magazine, lviii. 35, July, 1845.] - -6. The translation being literal, I have been able to retain even the -punctuation of Pushkin, and especially his dots, of which he makes -such frequent use. They are part of his art; they express by what -they withhold. I call especial attention to these, as Pushkin is as -powerful in what he indicates as in what he shows, in what he suggests -as in what he actually says. The finest example of the highest poetry -of his _silence_ (indicated by his dots) is the poem I have entitled -"Jealousy," to which the reader is particularly requested to turn with -this commentary of mine (p. 114). The poet is melted with tenderness at -the thought of his beloved all alone, far-off, weeping. The fiendish -doubt suddenly overpowers him, that after all, perhaps his beloved is -at that moment not alone, weeping for him, but in the arms of another:-- - - Alone ... to lips of none she is yielding - Her shoulders, nor moist lips, nor snow-white fingers. - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - None is worthy of her heavenly love. - Is it not so? Thou art alone.... Thou weepest.... - And I at peace? . . . . . . . - . . . . . . . . . . . . . - But if . . . . . . . - -One must be all vibration in order to appreciate the matchless power of -the dots here. The poem here ends. I know not the like of this in all -literature. - -7. Wherever I could ascertain the date of a poem, I have placed it at -the end. The reader will thus at a glance find at least one of the -proper relations of the poems to the poet's soul. For this purpose -these two dates should be borne constantly in mind: Pushkin was born in -1799; he died in 1837. - -8. To many of his poems Pushkin has given no name. To such, for the -reader's convenience I have supplied names, but have put them in -brackets, which accordingly are to be taken as indication that the name -they enclose is not Pushkin's. Many of his most beautiful poems were -addressed to individuals, and they appear in the original as "Lines -to ------." The gem of this collection, for instance, to which I have -supplied the title, "Inspiring Love"--inadequate enough, alas!--appears -in the original as "To A. P. Kern." As none of these poems have any -_intrinsic_ bond with the personages addressed, their very greatness -lying in their universality, I have supplied my own titles to such -pieces, giving the original title in a note. - -9. It was my original intention to make a life of the poet part of this -volume. But so varied was Pushkin's life, and so instructive withal, -that only an extended account could be of value. What is worth doing at -all is worth doing well. A mere sketch would here, for various reasons, -be worse than useless. Critics, who always know better what an author -ought to do than he himself, must kindly take this assertion of mine, -for the present at least, on trust, and assume that I, who have done -some thinking on the subject, am likely to know whereof I speak better -than those whose only claim to an opinion is that they have done no -thinking on the subject, resembling in this respect our modest friends, -the agnostics, who set themselves up as the true, knowing solvers of -the problems of life, because, forsooth, they know nothing.... Anyhow, -even at the risk of offending critics, I have decided to misstate -myself by not giving the life of Pushkin rather than to misstate poor -Pushkin by giving an attenuated, vapid thing, which passes under -the name of a "Sketch." The world judges a man by what is known of -him, forgetting that underneath the thin film of the known lies the -immeasurable abyss of the unknown, and that the true explanation of the -man is found not in what is visible of him, but in what is invisible -of him. Unless, therefore, I could present what is known of Pushkin -in such a manner as to suggest the unknown (just as a study of nature -should only help us to trust that what we do _not_ know of God is -likewise good!) I have no business to tell of his life. But to tell of -it in such a way that it shall represent Pushkin, and not misrepresent -him, is possible only in an extended life. Otherwise, I should be -telling not how he was living, but how he was starving, dying; and this -is not an edifying task, either for the writer or for the reader. - -10. Such a life is now well-nigh writ, but it is too long to make part -of this volume. - - - -I. POETIC IDEAL. - - -1. Pushkin was emphatically a subjective writer. Of intense -sensibility, which is _the_ indispensable condition of creative -genius, he was first of all a feeler with an Ĉolian attachment. He -did not even have to take the trouble of looking into his heart in -order to write. So full of feeling was his heart that at the slightest -vibration it poured itself out; and so deep was its feeling that what -is poured out is already melted, fused, shaped, and his poems come -forth, like Minerva from Jupiter's head, fully armed. There is a -perfection about them which is self-attesting in its unstudiedness and -artlessness; it is the perfection of the child, touching the hearts of -its beholders all the more tenderly because of its unconsciousness, -effortlessness; it is the perfection which Jesus had in mind when he -uttered that sentence so profound and so little followed because of -its very profundity: "Unless ye be like little children." So calm and -poiseful is Pushkin's poetry that in spite of all his pathos his soul -is a work of architecture,--a piece of frozen music in the highest -sense. Even through his bitterest agony,--and pathos is the one chord -which is never absent from Pushkin's song, as it is ever present in -Chopin's strains, ay, as it ever must be present in any soul that -truly _lives,_--there runneth a peace, a simplicity which makes the -reader exclaim on reading him: Why, I could have done the self-same -thing myself,--an observation which is made at the sight of Raphael's -Madonna, at the oratory of a Phillips, at the reading of "The Vicar of -Wakefield," at the acting of a Booth. Such art is of the highest, and -is reached only through one road: Spontaneity, complete abandonment -of self. The verse I have to think over I had better not write. Man -is to become only a pipe through which the Spirit shall flow; and the -Spirit _shall_ flow only where the resistance is least. Ope the door, -and the god shall enter! Seek not, pray not! To pray is to will, and to -will is to obstruct. The virtue which Emerson praises so highly in a -pipe--that it is smooth and hollow--is the very virtue which makes him -like Nature, an ever open, yet ever sealed book. Bring to him _your_ -theories, _your_ preconceived notions, and Emerson, like the great soul -of which he is but a voice, becomes unintelligible, confusing, chaotic. -The words are there; the eyes see them. The dictionary is at hand, -but nought avails; of understanding there is none to be had. But once -abandon will, once abandon self, once abandon opinion (a much harder -abandonment this than either!), and Emerson is made of glass, just as -when I abandon _my_ logic, God becomes transparent enough.... And what -is true of Emerson is true of every great soul. - -2. The highest art then is artlessness, unconsciousness. The true -artist is not the conceiver, the designer, the executor, but the -tool, the recorder, the reporter. He writes because write he must, -just as he breathes because breathe he must. And here too, Nature, as -elsewhere, hath indicated the true method. The most vital processes of -life are not the voluntary, the conscious, but the involuntary, the -unconscious. The blood circulates, the heart beats, the lungs fill, -the nerves vibrate; we digest, we fall asleep, we are stirred with -love, with awe, with reverence, without our will; and our highest -aspirations, our sweetest memories, our cheerfullest hopes, and alas! -also our bitterest self-reproaches, come ever like friends at the -feast,--uninvited. You can be happy, blest at will? Believe it not! -Happiness, blessedness _willed_ is not to be had in the market at any -quotation. It is not to be got. It comes. And it comes when least -willed. He is truly rich who has nought left to be deprived of, nought -left to ask for, nought left to will.... - -3. Pushkin, therefore, was incapable of giving an account of his own -poetry. Pushkin could not have given a theory of a single poem of his, -as Poe has given of his "Raven." Poe's account of the birth of "The -Raven" is indeed most delightful reading. "I told you so," is not -so much the voice of conceit, of "I knew better than thou!" but the -voice of the epicurean in us; it is ever a delight to most of us to -discover after the event that we knew it all before.... Delightful, -then, it is indeed, to read Poe's theory of his own "Raven;" but its -most delightful part is that the theory is a greater fiction than -the poem itself. It is the poem that has created the theory, not the -theory the poem. Neither could Pushkin do what Schiller has done: give -a theory of a drama of his own. The theory of Don Karlos as developed -in Schiller's letters on that play are writ not by Friedrich Schiller -the poet, the darling of the German land, the inspirer of the youth of -all lands, but by Herr von Schiller the professor; by Von Schiller the -Kantian metaphysician; by Von Schiller the critic; by another Schiller, -in short. Pushkin, however, unlike most of us, was not half a dozen -ancestors--God, beast, sage, fool--rolled into one, each for a time -claiming him as his own. Pushkin was essentially a unit, one voice; he -was a lyre, on which a _something, not he_--God!--invisibly played. - -4. And this he unconsciously to himself expresses in the piece, "My -Muse." - - "From mom till night in oak's dumb shadow - To the strange maid's teaching intent I listened; - And with sparing reward me gladdening, - Tossing back her curls from her forehead dear, - From my hands the flute herself she took. - Now filled the wood was with breath divine - And the heart with holy enchantment filled." - -Before these lines Byelinsky, the great Russian critic, stands -awe-struck. And well he may; for in the Russian _such_ softness, -smoothness, simplicity, harmony, and above all sincerity, had not been -seen before Pushkin's day. And though in the translation everything -except the thought is lost, I too as I now read it over on this -blessed Sunday morn (and the bell calling men unto the worship of -the great God is still ringing!), I too feel that even before _this_ -sun, shorn of its beams though it be, I am still in hallowed presence. -For the spirit is independent of tongue, independent of form; to -the god-filled soul the leaf is no less beautiful than the flower. -Discrimination, distinction, is only a sign that we are still detached -from the whole; that we are still only _half_; that we are still not -our own selves,--that we still, in short, miss the blessed ONE. To -the god-filled soul the grain of sand is no less beautiful than the -diamond; the spirit breaks through the crust (and words and forms are, -alas, only this!), and recognizes what is its where'er it finds it, -under whate'er disguise. The botanist prizes the weed as highly as the -flower, and with justice, because he seeks not the gratification of the -eye, but of the spirit. The eye is delighted with variety, the spirit -with unity. And the botanist seeks the unity, the whole, the godful in -the plant. And a fine perception it was,--that of Emerson: that a tree -is but a rooted man, a horse a running man, a fish a floating man, and -a bird a flying man. Logical, practical Supreme Court Justice, with one -eye in the back of his head, declares, indeed, such utterance insane, -and scornfully laughs, "I don't read Emerson; my garls do!"[2]but -the self-same decade brings a Darwin or a Heckel with his comparative -embryos; and at the sight of these, not even a lawyer, be he even Chief -Justice of Supreme Court, can distinguish between snake, fowl, dog, and -man. - -[Footnote 2: Jeremiah Mason.] - -5. In time, however, Pushkin does become objective to himself, as any -true soul that is obliged to reflect must sooner or later; and God ever -sees to it that the soul _be_ obliged to reflect if there be aught -within. For it is the essence of man's life that the soul struggle; it -is the essence of growth that it _push_ upward; it is the essence of -progress in walking that we _fall_ forward. Life is a battle,--battle -with the powers of darkness; battle with the diseases of doubt, -despair, self-will. And reflection is the symptom that the disease is -on the soul, that the battle is to go on. - -6. Pushkin then does become in time objective, and contemplates -himself. Pushkin the man inspects Pushkin the soul, and in the poem, -"My Monument," he gives his own estimate of himself:-- - - "A monument not hand-made I have for me erected; - The path to it well-trodden, will not overgrow; - Risen higher has it with unbending head - Than the monument of Alexander. - - No! not all of me shall die! my soul in hallowed lyre - Shall my dust survive, and escape destruction-- - And famous be I shall, as long as on earth sublunar - One bard at least living shall remain. - - "My name will travel over the whole of Russia great - And there pronounce my name shall every living tongue: - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - And long to the nation I shall be dear." - -Observe here the native nobility of the man. There is a heroic -consciousness of his own worth which puts to shame all gabble of -conceit and of self-consciousness being a vice, being immodest. Here -too, Emerson sets fine example in not hesitating to speak of his -own essays on Love and Friendship as "those fine lyric strains," -needing some balance by coarser tones on Prudence and the like. This -is the same heroic consciousness of one's own worth which makes a -Socrates propose as true reward for his services to the State, free -entertainment at the Prytaneum. This is the same manliness which in -a Napoleon rebukes the genealogy-monger who makes him descend from -Charlemagne, with the remark, "I am my own pedigree." This, in fine, is -the same manliness which made Jesus declare boldly, "I am the Way, I am -the Life, I am the Light," regardless of the danger that the "Jerusalem -Advertiser" and the "Zion Nation" might brand him as "deliciously -conceited." This recognition of one's own worth is at bottom the -highest reverence before God; inasmuch as I esteem myself, not because -of my body, which I have in common with the brutes, but because of my -spirit, which I have in common with God; and wise men have ever sung, -on hearing their own merit extolled, Not unto us, not unto us! There is -no merit in the matter; the God is either there or he is not.... - -7. Pushkin, then, even with this in view, is not so much a conscious -will, as an unconscious voice. He is not so much an individual singer, -as a strain from the music of the spheres; and he is a person, an -original voice, only in so far as he has hitched his wagon to a star. -In his abandonment is his greatness; in his self-destruction, his -strength. - - "The bidding of God, O Muse, obey. - Fear not insult, ask not crown: - Praise and blame take with indifference - And dispute not with the fool!" - -"And dispute not with the fool!" The prophet never argues; it is -for him only to affirm. Argument is at bottom only a lack of trust -in my own truth. Caesar's wife must be above suspicion: and to bear -misunderstanding in silence,--this is to be great. Hence the noblest -moment in Kepler's life was not when he discovered the planet, but -when he discovered that if God could wait six thousand years for the -understanding by man of one of his starlets, _he_ surely could wait a -few brief years for _his_ recognition by his fellow-men. God is the -great misunderstood, and he--never argues. In living out my truth in -silence, without argument even though misunderstood, I not only show -my faith in it, but prove it by my very strength. If I am understood, -nothing more need be said; if I am not understood, nothing more can be -said. Pushkin, therefore, often weeps, sobs, groans. He at times even -searches, questions, doubts, despairs; but he never argues. Broad is -the back of Pegasus, and strong is his wing, but neither his back nor -his wings shall enable him to float the rhyming arguer. No sooner does -the logician mount the heavenly steed than its wings droop, and both -rider and steed quickly drop into the limbo of inanity. Melancholy, -indeed, is the sight of a dandy dressed for a party unexpectedly -drenched by the shower; sorrowful is the sight of statesman turned -politician before election; and pitiful is the spectacle of the -manufacturing versifier, who grinds out of himself his daily task of -one hundred lines, as the milkman squeezes out his daily can of milk -from the cow. But most pitiful of all, immeasurably pathetic to me, is -the sight of pettifogging logician forsaking his hair-splitting world, -and betaking himself to somersaulting verse. To much the bard is indeed -called, but surely not to that.... - -8. To affirm then the bard is called, and what in "My Monument" is but -hinted, becomes clear, emphatic utterance in Pushkin's "Sonnet to the -Poet." - - "Poet, not popular applause shalt thou prize! - Of raptured praise shall pass the momentary noise; - The fool's judgment thou shalt hear, and the cold mob's laughter-- - Calm stand, and firm be, and--sober! - - "Thou art king: live alone. On the free road - Walk whither draws thee thy spirit free: - Ever the fruits of beloved thoughts ripening, - Never reward for noble deeds demanding. - - "In thyself reward seek. Thine own highest court thou art; - Severest judge, thine own works canst measure. - Art thou content, O fastidious craftsman? - Content? Then let the mob scold, - And spit upon the altar, where blazes thy fire. - Thy tripod in childlike playfulness let it shake." - -But because the bard is called to affirm, to inspire, to _serve_, he is -also called to be worn. To become the beautiful image, the marble must -be lopped and cut; the vine to bear sweeter fruit must be trimmed, -and the soul must go through a baptism of fire.... Growth, progress -is thus ever the casting off of an old self, and _Scheiden thut weh_. -Detachment hurts. A new birth can take place only amid throes of agony. -Hence the following lines of Pushkin on the poet:-- - - ... No sooner the heavenly word - His keen ear hath reached, - Then up trembles the singer's soul - Like an awakened eagle. - - "The world's pastimes now weary him - And mortals' gossip now he shuns. - . . . . . . . . . . - Wild and stem rushes he - Of tumult full and sound - To the shores of desert wave - Into the wildly whispering wood." - -9. This is as yet only discernment that the bard must needs suffer; -by-and-by comes also the fulfilment, the recognition of the wisdom -of the sorrow, and with it its joyful acceptance in the poem of "The -Prophet." - - "And out he tore my sinful tongue - . . . . . . . . . . - And ope he cut with sword my breast - And out he took my trembling heart - And a coal with gleaming blaze - Into the opened breast he shoved. - Like a corpse I lay in the desert. - And God's Voice unto me called: - Arise, O prophet, and listen, and guide. - Be thou filled with my will - And going over land and sea - Fire with the word the hearts of men!" - -"Be thou filled with my will!" His ideal began with abandonment of -self-will; it ended with complete surrender of self-will. When we have -done all the thinking and planning and weighing, and pride ourselves -upon _our_ wisdom, we are not yet wise. One more step remains to be -taken, without which we only may avoid the wrong; with which, however, -we shall surely come upon the right. We must still say, Teach us, Thou, -to merge our will in Thine.... - - - -II. INNER LIFE. - - -10. I have already stated that Pushkin is a subjective writer. The -great feelers must ever be thus, just as the great reasoners must ever -be objective, just as the great lookers can only be objective. For the -eye looks only on the outward thing; the reason looks only upon the -outward effect, the consequence; but the heart looks not only upon the -thing, but upon its reflection upon self,--upon its moral relation, -in short. Hence the subjectivity of a Tolstoy, a Byron, a Rousseau, -a Jean Paul, a Goethe, who does not become objective until he has -ceased to be a feeler, and becomes the comprehender, the understander, -the seer, the _poised_ Goethe. Marcus Aurelius, Pascal, Amiel, look -into their hearts and write; and Carlyle and Ruskin, even though the -former use "Thou" instead of "I," travel they never so far, still -find their old "I" smiling by their side. But the subjectivity of -Pushkin, unlike that of Walt Whitman, is not only not intrusive, but -it is even delight-giving,--for it paints not the Pushkin that is -different from all other men, but the Pushkin that is in fellowship -with all other men; he therefore, in reporting himself, voices the -very experience of his fellows, who, though feeling it deeply, were -yet unable to give it tongue. It is this which makes Pushkin the poet -in its original sense,--the maker, the sayer, the namer. And herein is -his greatness,--in expressing not what is his, in so far that it is -different from what is other men's, but what is his, _because_ it is -other men's likewise. Herein he is what makes him a man of genius. For -what does a genius do? - -11. What is it that makes the water, when spouting forth in a smooth -stream from the hose, such a power? What is it that makes the beauty -of the stem and curve of the body of water, as it leaps out of the -fountain? It is the same water which a few yards back we can see -flowing aimless in stream or pond. Yes, but it is the concentration -of the loose elements into harmonious shape, whether for utility, as -in the case of the hose-spout, or for beauty, as in the case of the -fountain. Nought new is added to the _mass_ existing before. This is -precisely the case of genius. He adds nought to what has gone before -him. He merely arranges, formulates. A vast unorganized mass of -intelligence, of aspiration, of feeling, becomes diffused over mankind. -Soon it seeks organization. The poet, the prophet, the seer, cometh, -and lo, he becomes the magnet round which all spiritual force of the -time groups itself in visible shape, in formulated language. - -12. Pushkin, then, is self-centred; but it is the self that is not -Pushkin, but man. His mood is others' mood; and in singing of his life, -he sings of the life of all men. The demon he sings of in the poem -called "My Demon" is not so much his demon alone as also yours, mine, -ours. It is his demon because it is all men's demon. - - "A certain evil spirit then - Began in secret me to visit. - Grievous were our meetings, - His smile, and his wonderful glance, - His speeches, these so stinging, - Cold poison poured into my soul. - Providence with slander - Inexhaustible he tempted; - Of Beauty as a dream he spake - And inspiration he despised; - Nor love, nor freedom trusted he, - On life with scorn he looked-- - And nought in all nature - To bless he ever wished." - -And this demon--"the Spirit of Denial, the Spirit of Doubt"--of which -he sings afterwards so pathetically tormented him long. He began with -"Questionings:"-- - - "Useless gift, accidental gift, - Life, why art thou given me? - Or, why by fate mysterious - To torture art thou doomed? - - "Who with hostile power me - Out has called from the nought? - Who my soul with passion thrilled, - Who my spirit with doubt has filled?..." - -And he continues with "Sleeplessness:"-- - - "I cannot sleep, I have no light; - Darkness 'bout me, and sleep is slow; - The beat monotonous alone - Near me of the clock is heard - Of the Fates the womanish babble, - Of sleeping night the trembling, - Of life the mice-like running-about,-- - Why disturbing me art thou? - What art thou, O tedious whisper? - The reproaches, or the murmur - Of the day by me misspent? - What from me wilt thou have? - Art thou calling or prophesying? - Thee I wish to understand, - Thy tongue obscure I study now." - -13. And this demon gives him no rest, even long after he had found -the answer,--that the meaning of Life is in _Work_. Solve the problem -of life? _Live_, and you solve it; and to live means to do. But that -work was the solution of the problem of life he indeed discerned but -vaguely. It was with him not yet conscious fulfilment. He had not yet -formulated to himself the gospel he unconsciously obeyed. Hence the -wavering of the "Task:"-- - - "The longed-for moment here is. Ended is my long-yeared task. - Why then sadness strange me troubles secretly? - My task done, like needless hireling am I to stand, - My wage in hand, to other task a stranger? - Or my task regret I, of night companion silent mine, - Gold Aurora's friend, the friend of my sacred household gods?" - -14. And for the same reason, when he had ceased to be a roamer and at -last settled down to quiet home-life, the memory of the days of yore -still gives him a pang; and at the sight of the gypsies, whose free and -easy life once occupied his thoughts seriously, not only to sing of -them, but to live with them, only a plaintive note bursts forth from -his soul:-- - - "Thee I greet, O happy race! - I recognize thy blazes, - I myself at other times - These tents would have followed. - - "With the early rays to-morrow - Shall disappear your freedom's trace, - Go you will--but not with you - Longer go shall the bard of you. - - "He alas, the changing lodgings, - And the pranks of days of yore - Has forgot for rural comforts - And for the quiet of a home." - -15. And this too when these same "rural comforts" he now regrets to -have taken in exchange for his wanderings were the very circumstances -he sighed for when he did lead the free life he now envies the gypsies -for. For this is what he then had been singing: - - "Mayhap not long am destined I - In exile peaceful to remain, - Of dear days of yore to sigh - And rustic muse in quiet - With spirit calm to pursue. - - "But even far, in a foreign land - In thought forever roam I shall - Around Trimountain mine: - By meadows, river, by its hills, - By garden, linden, nigh the house." - -16. No wonder, therefore, that the demon, having unsettled the poet's -soul with restlessness, should now unsettle his reasoning powers -with regrets. For regret is at bottom a disease, an inability to -perceive that the best way to mend harm once done is not in lamenting -the past, but in struggling for a future; in which future much of -the past could be undone; or if it could not be undone, at least it -could be prevented from contaminating with its corpse the life of -the future. And his regret is bitter enough. In the first of the two -poems, "Regret" and "Reminiscence," the feeling again is as yet only -discernment; but in the second, the poison has already entered his -soul, and accordingly it no longer is a song, but a cry of agony.... - -At first it is is only-- - - "But where are ye, O moments tender - Of young my hopes, of heartfelt peace? - The former heat and grace of inspiration? - Come again, O ye, of spring my years!" - -But later it becomes-- - - "Before me memory in silence - Its lengthy roll unfolds, - And with disgust my life I reading - Tremble I and curse it. - Bitterly I moan, and bitterly my tears I shed - But wash away the lines of grief I cannot. - In laziness, in senseless feasts, - In the madness of ruinous license, - In thraldom, poverty, and homeless deserts - My wasted years there I behold...." - -17. Regret, in itself a disease, but only of the intellect, -soon changes into a more violent disease: into a disease of the -constitution, which is fear, fear of insanity. In ordinary minds such -disease takes the form of fear for the future, of worry for existence; -in extraordinary minds it takes more ghastly shapes,--distrust of -friends, and dread of the close embrace of what is already stretching -forth its claws after the soul,--insanity. - -Hence,-- - - "God grant I grow not insane: - No, better the stick and beggar's bag; - No, better toil and hunger bear. - . . . . . . . . . . - If crazy once, - A fright thou art like pestilence, - And locked up now shalt thou be. - - "To a chain thee, fool, they 'll fasten - And through the gate, a circus beast, - Thee to nettle the people come. - - "And at night not hear shall I - Clear the voice of nightingale - Nor the forest's hollow sound, - - "But cries alone of companions mine - And the scolding guards of night - And a whizzing, of chains a ringing." - -18. That thoughts of death should now be his companions is only to be -expected. But here again his muse plainly sings itself out in both -stages,--the stage of discernment and the stage of fulfilment. In the -first of the two poems, "Elegy" and "Death-Thoughts" he only _thinks_ -of death; in the second he already _longs_ for it. - -In the first it is only-- - - "My wishes I have survived, - My ambition I have outgrown! - Left only is my smart, - The fruit of emptiness of heart. - - "Under the storm of cruel Fate - Faded has my blooming crown! - Sad I live and lonely, - And wait: Is nigh my end?" - -But in the second it already becomes-- - - "Whether I roam along the noisy streets - Whether I enter the peopled temple, - Whether I sit by thoughtless youth, - Haunt my thoughts me everywhere. - - "I say, Swiftly go the years by: - However great our number now, - Must all descend the eternal vaults,-- - Already struck has some one's hour. - . . . . . . . . . . - - "Every year thus, every day - With death my thought I join - Of coming death the day - I seek among them to divine." - -19. Pushkin died young; that he would have conquered his demon in time -there is every reason to believe, though the fact that he had not yet -conquered him at the age of thirty-eight must show the tremendous -force of bad blood, and still worse circumstance, which combined made -the demon of Pushkin. But already he shows signs of having seen the -promised land. - -In the three poems, "Resurrection," "The Birdlet" (iv. 133), and -"Consolation," the first shows that he conquered his regret-disease; -the second, that he already found in Love _some_ consolation for -sorrow. And the third shows that he already felt his way at least to -_some_ peace, even though it be not yet _faith_ in the future, but only -hope. For hope is not yet knowledge; it only trusts that the future -will be good. Faith knows that the future _must_ be good, because it is -in the hands of God, the Good. - -In the first it is-- - - "Thus my failings vanish too - From my wearied soul - And again within it visions rise - Of my early purer days." - -In the second,-- - - "And now I too have consolation: - Wherefore murmur against my God - When at least to one living being - I could of freedom make a gift?" - -And in the last,-- - - "In the future lives the heart: - Is the present sad indeed? - 'T is but a moment, all will pass...." - -This _is_ consoling utterance, but not yet of the highest; and the -loftiest _spiritual_ song, the song of the Psalmist, was not given unto -Pushkin to sing. - - - -III. GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. - - -20. I have translated the poems of Pushkin not so much because they -are masterpieces in the literature of Russia, as because I think the -English reading-public has much to learn from him. English literature -is already blessed with masterpieces, which, if readers would only -be content to study them for the sake of what they have to _impart_ -(not amuse with!), would give enough employment as well as amusement -for all the time an ordinary reader can give to literature. So that -merely for the sake of making new beauty accessible to English readers, -it is hardly worth while to go out of English literature, and drag -over from beyond the Atlantic poor Pushkin as a new beast in a circus -for admiration. The craze for novelty has its place in human nature -but not as an end in itself. As a literary method, it might be found -commendable in a magazine editor, whose highest ambition is to follow -the standard of a public even he does not respect. It might be found -commendable in a gifted author to whom bread is dearer than _his_ -genius, so that he is ready to sacrifice the one to the other; but an -inexperienced author, who has not yet learned wisdom (or is it prudence -merely?) from the bitter literary disappointments which are surely in -store for every earnest, aspiring soul,--such an author, I say,--must -not be expected to make _mere_ novelty his motive for serious work. -Nay, the conclusion at which Pascal arrived, at the age of twenty-six, -that there is really only _one_ book that to an earnest soul is -sufficient for a lifetime to read,--namely, the Bible,--extravagant -though this sound, I am ready, after many years of reflection on this -saying of Pascal, to subscribe to, even at an age when I have six -years of experience additional to his.... To read much, but not many -books, is old wisdom, yet ever new. A literary masterpiece is to be -read, not once, nor twice, nor thrice, but scores of times. A literary -masterpiece should, like true love, grow dearer with intercourse. A -literary masterpiece should be read and re-read until it has become -part of our flesh and circulates in our blood, until its purity, its -loftiness, its wisdom, utter itself in our every deed. It is this -devotion to one book that has made the Puritans of such heroic mould; -they _fed_ on one book until they talked and walked and lived out their -spiritual food. If any one think this estimate of the influence of one -great book exaggerated, let him try to live for one week in succession -wholly in the spirit of the one book that to him is _the_ book (I -will not quarrel with him if it be Smiles instead of St. Matthew, or -Malthus's Essay on Population instead of the Gospel of St. John, or -even our modern realistic Gospel of dirt), and let him see what will -come of it. - -21. Shakespeare, Milton, Carlyle, Ruskin, Emerson, Scott, Goldsmith, -Irving, Johnson, Addison, furnish a library which is really enough for -the life-time of _any_ one who takes life seriously, and comes to these -masters, not as a conceited lord waiting for amusement,--as a judge, -in short,--but as a beggar, an humble learner, hoping to carry away -from them not the tickle of pleasure, but the life-giving sustenance. -To _make_ letters a source of amusement is but to dig for iron with a -spade of gold. Amusement is indeed often necessary, just as roasting -eggs is often necessary; but who would travel to a volcano for the -sake of roasting his eggs? No, the masters in letters are not sent to -us for our amusement; they are sent to us to give the one answer to -each of us, which at the peril of our lives we must sooner or later -receive,--the answer to the question: How shall we live to be worthy -of that spark from heaven which is given us in trust to keep alive for -the brief years of life on earth? The great masters, then, are the -inspirers; and God ever sees to it that there be enough inspirers, if -men but see to it that there be enough inspired. - -22. But of the millions of the English-speaking readers, who to-day -_assimilates_ the masterpieces of English literature? Generations come, -and generations go. The classic writers keep their reputation; but do -they hold their readers? Do the readers hold to the masters? Not the -masters sway the public taste, not the writers of the first rank, not -the giants; but the pygmies, the minions, the men of the second, fifth, -twentieth rank. If any one think me extravagant, let him cast a glance -of his _open_ eyes at our monthly reviews and magazines, both here -and in England, especially those whose circulation reaches into the -hundreds of thousands.... - -23. Not, then, because _additional_ masterpieces are needed for rousing -our degenerate literary taste have I translated Pushkin. As long as the -literary editors (who, from the very fact of once having the ear of the -public, become the _stewards of the hungry_) insist on feeding it with -the Roes and the Crawfords and the Haggards and the Stevensons and the -rest of them, not only new masterpieces, but even the old ones will -remain unread. The Bible lies on parlor table (if it ever get there!) -unread; Milton lies indeed beautifully bound, but has to be dusted once -a week; and Emerson need not even be dusted,--he has not yet got as far -as to be the ornament of parlor table. - -But I have translated Pushkin because I believe that even the masters -of English literature have defects which are part of the English -character; and as such they must reappear in its literature. And it is -against these that Pushkin's poems offer a healthy remedy. - -24. For the first characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon race is that it is -a race of talkers; and the destinies of the two most advanced nations -of that race are to-day governed almost wholly by men whose strength -is neither in the head nor in the will nor in the heart, but in the -tongue. But the talker cares only for the effect of the moment. With -the great hereafter he has but little to do; hence he becomes, first of -all, a resounder, a thunderer, a sky-rockety dazzler. And once that, -the orator need not even care whether he persuade or not; if he merely -astound the ear, dazzle the eye, and overwhelm the hearer himself for -the moment,--if, in short, he but produce _an_ effect, even if it be -not _the_ effect desired,--it is well with him in his own estimation. -The orator thus soon becomes the mere rhetorician. And this rhetorical -quality, appealing as it does only to the superficial in man, and -coming as it does only from the surface of the man, is found nowhere -in such excess as in the poetry of the Anglo-Saxon race. Ornament, -metaphor, must be had, and if it cannot be had spontaneously from a -fervid imagination, which alone is the legitimate producer of metaphor, -recourse must be had to manufactured sound. Hence there is scarcely a -single poet in the English tongue whose style is not vitiated by false -metaphor; this is true of the greatest as well as of the least. The -member of Parliament who smelt a rat, and saw it brewing in the air -until it was in danger of becoming an apple of discord to the honorable -members of the House, could have been born only on British soil. To -take up arms against a sea of trouble, and to discover footprints in -the sands of time while sailing over life's solemn main (no less than -five false metaphors in this example from the Psalm of Life!) are feats -that can be accomplished by the imagination of even a Shakespeare or a -Longfellow solely because these are Anglo-Saxons. And I am yet to see -five consecutive pages of any Anglo-Saxon poet free from this literary -vice of false metaphor! I call this a vice because it is at bottom an -insincerity of imagination. The false metaphors are not pictures seen, -but pictures made up; they are not the spontaneous outbursts of an -overflowing imagination, but the ground-out product of pictureless will -for the sake of effect. And this I do not hesitate to call literary -insincerity even though the process of making them up be unconscious at -the time to the poet himself. - -25. Now it is Pushkin's great virtue that his imagination is eminently -spontaneous. He seldom uses adjectives; but when he does use them, -he uses such only as do actually describe something. He seldom -uses similes or metaphors,--he prefers to sing of the subjects -themselves, not of what they resemble; but when he does use them, -the reader's imagination is able to _see_ the picture the poet had -in mind, which is not often true of the English bards. Examples for -comparison are innumerable; let a few suffice. Turn to Pushkin's -lines, "Regret." He there regrets the days of his youth, but first -tells by way of contrast what he does not regret; and his poem is -simple, straightforward. Byron, however, in his "Stanzas for Music," -of which Canon Farrar thought well enough to insert them in his "With -the Poets," and Mr. Palgrave thinks good enough to be admitted into -his "Treasury of English Poetry," finds it necessary to preface it -with something like philosophical remarks, and then proceeds in this -fashion:-- - - "Then the few whose _spirits float above the wreck of happiness_ - _Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:_ - _The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain_ - _The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again_. - - "Then _the mortal coldness of the soul_ till death itself comes down; - It cannot feel for other's woes, it dare not dream it's own. - _That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears_, - And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the ice appears, - - "Oh, could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, - Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanished scene, - As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, - _So midst the withered waste of life,_ those tears would flow to me." - -One must go to Shakespeare's Sonnets for poetry as false as this. Among -writers with the true poetic feeling, such as Byron truly had, I know -not the like of this except these. Of these twelve lines only the first -two of the last stanza are _true_, are _felt;_ the rest are _made._ How -are _we_, not Arabs but English-talking folk, to know the springs which -in deserts found seem (_do_ they?) sweet, brackish though they be? And -Byron _was_ a poet! But even a Byron cannot make a shivered sail or -a coldness of a soul which is mortal, or a chill that freezes over a -fountain of tears anything but mere verbiage, and verbiage moreover -which instead of the intended sadness is dangerously nigh raising -laughter.... - -26. Again, take Longfellow's "Hymn to Night:"-- - - "I heard the trailing garments of the night - Sweep through her marble halls! - I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light - From the celestial walls. - . . . . . . . . . . - From the cool cisterns of the midnight air, - My spirit drank repose." - -For the like of this one can no longer go even to Shakespeare's -Sonnets. For Shakespeare was still a poet. One must now go to Mrs. -Deland, who is not even that. For observe: - -Night has halls, and these halls are marble halls; and this -marble-hailed Night is unable to stay at home, and must go forth, and -accordingly she does go in full dress with her garments trailing with -a right gracious sweep. And the bard not only sees the sable skirts -which dangle about in fringes made phosphorescent by contact with -the celestial walls of such peculiar marble, but he even hears the -rustle.... And these halls with accommodating grace are changed into -cool, deep cisterns from which accordingly the bard's spirit with due -solemnity draws into his spirit's wide-opened mouth a draught of repose. - -27. Turn from this "Hymn to Night" of thirty lines to the three lines -of Pushkin in his "Reminiscence," which alone he devotes to Night:-- - - "When noisy day to mortals quiet grows, - And upon the city's silent walls - _Night's shadow half-transparent lies."_ - -The marble halls and the trailing garments were _ground out_ from the -writer's fingers; the half-transparent shadow of the poet _came_ to the -poet.... - -28. After such examples of wretchedness from real giants such as Byron -and Longfellow indisputably are, I do not hesitate to ask the reader -for a last example to turn first to Pushkin's "Cloud," and then read -Shelley's poem on the same subject:-- - - "I bear light shade for the leaves _when laid - In their noonday dreams_. [Just _how_ are leaves thus laid?] - From my wings are shaken the dews that waken - The sweet buds every one, - _When rocked to rest on their mother's breast_, - _As she dances about in the sun."_ - -(Oh, good, my Shelley! one _dances_ to and fro; one cannot dance in -a uniform, straightforward motion. Thy imagination never _saw_ THAT -picture! Spin, whirl, rush,--yes, but _dance_?) - - "That orbèd maiden with white fire laden - Whom mortals call the Moon - _Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor_, - By the midnight breezes strewn; - _And wherever the beat of her unseen feet_ - Which only the angels hear - May have broken the woof of my tent's roof, - The stars peep behind her and peer." - -Who has not been stirred by the sight of the fleece-like, broken clouds -on a moonlight night? But who on looking up to that noble arch overhead -at such a moment could _see_ it as a _floor_?... - -29. I call this wretched poetry, even though other critics vociferously -declare Shelley's "Cloud" to be one of the masterpieces of the English -language. _De gustibus non disputandum_. The Chinese have a liking, it -is said, for black teeth, and a bulb of a nose is considered a great -beauty in some parts of Africa, and a human leg is considered a great -delicacy by some Islanders; but.... - -30. And the second characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon race, which, -however valuable it may prove in practical life, is reflected -disastrously in its poetry, is its incapacity to appreciate true -sentiment. An Anglo-Saxon knows sentimentality when he sees it, he -knows morbidness when he sees it; but the healthy sentiment of which -these are but the diseases he is incapable of appreciating to a depth -where it would become part of his life. Hence, though a Malthus might -have written his Essay on Population anywhere, since it is a truly -cosmopolitan book, a Malthusian doctrine with all that it means and -stands for could have grown up only on British soil; and though the -warning voice against the dangers of sentimental charity (_if_ there -really be such a thing, and _if_ such a thing, supposing it to exist, -be really dangerous!) might be lifted in any land, the hard, frigid, -almost brutal doctrine of scientific charity could strike root only -in London, and blossom out in full array only in a city like Boston. -The reader will please observe that I do not here undertake to judge. -Malthusian doctrine, scientific charity, brutality of any kind may be -necessary, for aught I know. A great many well-meaning and kind-hearted -people have in sober thought decided that it often is necessary. I -am only stating what seems to me to be a fact. To me this is a most -melancholy fact; to others it may be a joyful fact. But whether joyful -or melancholy, this fact explains why so little sentiment is found -among the Anglo-Saxon poets even when they _feel_ their passions, and -do not, as is usually the case with them, reason about them, or what is -worse, compose far-fetched similes about them. Glimpses of sentiment -are of course found now and then, but only now and then. It is not -often that Wordsworth sings in such pure strains as that of the lines,-- - - "My heart leaps up when I behold - A Rainbow in the sky." - -It is not often that Byron strikes a chord as deep as that of the lines -"In an Album:"-- - - "As o'er the cold, sepulchral stone, - Some name arrests the passer-by." - -It is here, however, that Pushkin is unsurpassed. One must go to Heine, -one must go to Uhland, to Goethe, to find the like of him. And what -makes him master here is the fact that his sentiment comes out pure, -that it comes forth fused. And it comes thus because it comes from -the depths; and as such it must find response even in an Anglo-Saxon -heart, provided it has not yet been eaten into by Malthusian law and -scientific charity. Pushkin's sentiment extorts respect even where it -finds no longer any response; and as the sight of nobility stirs a -healthy soul to noble deeds, as the sight of beauty refines the eye, -so the presence of true sentiment can only awaken whatever sentiment -already sleeps within us. It is for supplying this glaring defect in -the English poets that a reading of Pushkin becomes invaluable. I -almost fear to quote or compare. Sentiment cannot be argued about; -like all else of the highest, deepest, like God, like love, it must be -_felt_. Where it is understood, nothing need be said; where it is not -understood, nothing can be said.... - -31. And yet a single example I venture to give. Pushkin's "Inspiring -Love" and Wordsworth's "Phantom of Delight" treat of the same theme. -Pushkin sees his beloved again, and after years-- - - "Enraptured beats again my heart, - And risen are for it again - Both reverence and Inspiration - And life, and tears, and love." - -Wordsworth also gets now a nearer view of his "Phantom of Delight;" and -the sight rouses him to this pitch of enthusiastic sentiment: - - "And now I see with eye serene, - The very pulse of the _machine_." - -In the presence of such bungling, I am almost ashamed to call -attention, not to the machine that has a pulse, but to that noble woman -who, purified, clarified in the imagination by the heat of a melted -heart, can only become to the poet, a--machine. And this is the poet -(whose very essence should be sensitiveness, delicacy, _sentiment_) who -is ranked by Matthew Arnold as the greatest poet since Shakespeare.... - -32. I have given only one example, though there is hardly a volume of -English poetry, with the possible exception of those of Burns, which -does not furnish dozens of examples. If I give only one, it is because -I have in mind Ĉsop's lioness, who gave such smart reply when chided -for giving birth to only one young.... - -33. There is, indeed, one poet in the English language whose pages -throb with sentiment, and who is moreover singularly free from that -literary vice which I have called insincerity of imagination; in purity -of pictures, in simplicity of sentiment, Goldsmith is unsurpassed in -any tongue, but Goldsmith was not an Anglo-Saxon. And even Macaulay's -great praise of "The Traveller" has not been sufficient to give it -a place of _authority_ among readers. The persons that read "The -Traveller" once a year, as such a possession for all times should be -read by rational readers, are very few. - -34. From what I have designated as the first characteristic of the -Anglo-Saxon race--its rhetorical quality--springs the second, which -I have designated as the superficiality of sentiment; since the -rhetorician needs no depth, and when he does need it, he needs it only -for the moment. And from this same rhetorical quality springs the -third characteristic of English writers which appears in literature -as a vice. I mean their comparative lack of the sense of form, of -measuredness, literary temperance,--the want, in short, of the -_artistic_ sense. For architectural proportion, with beginning, middle, -and end in proper relation, English poets have but little respect, and -it is here that Pushkin is again master. It is the essence of poetry, -that which makes it _not-prose_, that it is intense; but intensity to -produce its effect must be short-lived. Prolonged, like a stimulant, -it ceases to act. Hence, one of the first laws of poetry is that the -presentation of its scenes, emotions, episodes, be brief. Against this -law the sins in English literature among its masters are innumerable. -Take, for instance, the manner in which Pushkin, on the one hand, and -English poets, on the other, treat an object which has ever affected -men with poetic emotion. - -35. Many are the English poets who have tried their voices in singing -of birds; Wordsworth's lines to the Skylark, the Green Linnet, the -Cuckoo, Shelley's piece "To a Skylark," Keats's "Ode to a Nightingale," -Bryant's "Lines to a Waterfowl," attest sufficiently the inspiration -which tender birdie hath for the soul of man. Now read these in the -light of Pushkin's twenty lines called "The Birdlet." Bryant alone, it -seems to me, holds his own by the side of Pushkin. Shelley and Keats -are lengthy to weariness; and Wordsworth is almost painfully tame. What -thoughtlet or emotionlet these are stirred with at the sight of birdie -is like a babe in the swaddling-clothes of fond, but inexperienced -parents, suffocated in its wrappage. - -36. This measuredness Pushkin displays best in his narrative poems. -His story _moves._ His "Delibash" is the finest example of rapidity of -execution combined with fidelity of skill. And the vividness of his -stories in "The Drowned," "The Roussalka," and "The Cossak," is due not -so much to the dramatic talent Pushkin doubtless possessed as to the -sense of proportion which saved him from loading his narrative with -needless detail. Gray's "Elegy," for instance, matchless in its beauty, -is marred by the needless appendage of the youth himself. This part of -the poem seems _patched on_ Wordsworth's "Lucy Gray" seems to justify -Goldsmith's bold metaphor,--for it does drag a lengthening chain at -each remove. Longfellow's "Prelude" has like "Sartor Resartus" a most -unwieldy apparatus for getting ready. The poet there is ever ready to -say something, but hardly says it even at the end. And even Tennyson, -who at one time did know what it was to keep fine poise in such -matters, is frequently guilty of this merely getting ready to say his -say. - -37. These, then, are the three great virtues of Pushkin's poems: They -have sincere imagination, which means pure taste; they have true -sentiment, which means pure depth; they have true measure, which means -pure art. Pushkin has many more virtues which are common to all great -poets; but of these three I thought necessary to speak in detail. - - - - -Poems: Autobiographical. - - -MON PORTRAIT. - -X. 35.[1] - - - Vous me demandez mon portrait, - Mais peint d'après nature: - Mon cher, il sera bientôt fait, - Quoique en miniature. - - Je sais un jeune polisson - Encore dans les classes: - Point sot, je le dis sans façon - Et sans fades grimaces. - - One, il ne fut de babillard, - Ni docteur de Sorbonne - Plus ennuyeux et plus braillard - Que moi-même en personne. - - Ma taille à celle des plus longs - Elle n'est point égalée; - J'ai le teint frais, les cheveux blonds, - Et la tête bouclée. - - J'aime et le monde, et son fracas, - Je hais la solitude; - J'abhorre et noises et débats, - Et tant soit peu l'étude. - - Spectacles, bals me plaisent fort, - Et d'après ma pensée - Je dirais ce que j'aime encore, - Si je n'étais au lycée. - - Après cela, mon cher ami, - L'on peut me reconnaître: - Oui! tel que le bon Dieu me fit, - Je veux toujours paraître. - - Vrai demon pour l'espièglerie, - Vrai singe par sa mine, - Beaucoup et trop d'étourderie,-- - Ma foi--voilà Poushkine. - $/ - - - [Footnote 1: See Preface, § 1.] - - - - - MY PEDIGREE. - - IV. 66. - - - With scorning laughter at a fellow writer, - In a chorus the Russian scribes - With name of aristocrat me chide: - Just look, if please you ... nonsense what! - Court Coachman not I, nor assessor, - Nor am I nobleman by cross; - No academician, nor professor, - I'm simply of Russia a citizen. - - Well I know the times' corruption, - And, surely, not gainsay it shall I: - Our nobility but recent is: - The more recent it, the more noble 't is. - But of humbled races a chip, - And, God be thanked, not alone - Of ancient Lords am scion I; - Citizen I am, a citizen! - - Not in cakes my grandsire traded, - Not a prince was newly-baked he; - Nor at church sang he in choir, - Nor polished he the boots of Tsar; - Was not escaped a soldier he - From the German powdered ranks; - How then aristocrat am I to be? - God be thanked, I am but a citizen. - - My grandsire Radsha in warlike service - To Alexander Nefsky was attached. - The Crowned Wrathful, Fourth Ivan, - His descendants in his ire had spared. - About the Tsars the Pushkins moved; - And more than one acquired renown, - When against the Poles battling was - Of Nizhny Novgorod the citizen plain. - - When treason conquered was and falsehood, - And the rage of storm of war, - When the Romanoffs upon the throne - The nation called by its Chart-- - We upon it laid our hands; - The martyr's son then favored us; - Time was, our race was prized, - But I ... am but a citizen obscure. - - Our stubborn spirit us tricks has played; - Most irrepressible of his race, - With Peter my sire could not get on; - And for this was hung by him. - Let his example a lesson be: - Not contradiction loves a ruler, - Not all can be Prince Dolgorukys, - Happy only is the simple citizen. - - My grandfather, when the rebels rose - In the palace of Peterhof, - Like Munich, faithful he remained - To the fallen Peter Third; - To honor came then the Orloffs, - But my sire into fortress, prison-- - Quiet now was our stern race, - And I was born merely--citizen. - - Beneath my crested seal - The roll of family charts I've kept; - Not running after magnates new, - My pride of blood I have subdued; - I'm but an unknown singer - Simply Pushkin, not Moussin, - My strength is mine, not from court: - I am a writer, a citizen. - - - - - MY MONUMENT. - - IV. 23. - - - A monument not hand-made I have for me erected; - The path to it well-trodden will not overgrow; - Risen higher has it with unbending head - Than the monument of Alexander. - - No! not all of me shall die! my soul in hallowed lyre - Shall my dust survive, and escape destruction-- - And famous be I shall, as long as on earth sublunar - One bard at least living shall remain. - - My name will travel over the whole of Russia great, - And there pronounce my name shall every living tongue: - The Slav's proud scion, and the Finn, and the savage yet - Tungus, and the Calmuck, lover of the steppe. - - And long to the nation I shall be dear: - For rousing with my lyre its noble feelings. - For extolling freedom in a cruel age, - For calling mercy upon the fallen. - - The bidding of God, O Muse, obey. - Fear not insult, ask not crown: - Praise and blame take with indifference - And dispute not with the fool! - - _August_, 1836. - - - - - MY MUSE. - - IV. 1. - - - In the days of my youth she was fond of me, - And the seven-stemmed flute she handed me. - To me with smile she listened; and already gently - Along the openings echoing of the woods - Was playing I with fingers tender: - Both hymns solemn, god-inspired - And peaceful song of Phrygian shepherd. - From morn till night in oak's dumb shadow - To the strange maid's teaching intent I listened; - And with sparing reward me gladdening - Tossing back her curls from her forehead dear, - From my hands the flute herself she took. - Now filled the wood was with breath divine - And the heart with holy enchantment filled. - - 1823. - - - - - MY DEMON. - - IV. 107. - - In those days when new to me were - Of existence all impressions:-- - The maiden's glances, the forests' whisper, - The song of nightingale at night; - When the sentiments elevated - Of Freedom, glory and of love, - And of art the inspiration - Stirred deeply so my blood:-- - My hopeful hours and joyful - With melancholy sudden dark'ning - A certain evil spirit then - Began in secret me to visit. - Grievous were our meetings, - His smile, and his wonderful glance, - His speeches, these so stinging - Cold poison poured into my soul. - Providence with slander - Inexhaustible he tempted; - Of Beauty as a dream he spake - And inspiration he despised; - Nor love, nor freedom trusted he, - On life with scorn he looked-- - And nought in all nature - To bless he ever wished. - - 1823. - - - - - REGRET. - - IV. 76. - - - Not ye regret I, of spring my years, - In dreams gone by of hopeless love; - Not ye regret I, O mysteries of nights. - By songstress passionate celebrated; - - Not ye, regret I, O my faithless friends - Nor crowns of feasts, nor cups of circle, - Nor ye regret I, O traitresses young-- - To pleasures melancholy stranger am I. - - But where are ye, O moments tender - Of young my hopes, of heartfelt peace? - The former heat and grace of inspiration? - Come again, O ye, of spring my years! - - - - - REMINISCENCE. - - IV. 96. - - - When noisy day to mortals quiet grows, - And upon the city's silent walls - Night's shadow half-transparent lies, - And Sleep, of daily toils reward,-- - Then for me are dragging in the silence - Of wearying wakefulness the hours. - In the sloth of night more scorching burn - My heart's serpents' gnawing fangs; - Boil my thoughts; my soul with grief oppressed - Full of reveries sad is thronged. - Before me memory in silence - Its lengthy roll unfolds. - And with disgust my life I reading - Tremble I and curse it. - Bitterly I moan, and bitterly my tears I shed, - But wash away the lines of grief I cannot. - - In laziness, in senseless feasts - In the craziness of ruinous license, - In thraldom, poverty, and homeless deserts - My wasted years there I behold. - Of friends again I hear the treacherous greeting - Games amid of love and wine. - To the heart again insults brings - Irrepressible the cold world. - No joy for me,--and calmly before me - Of visions young two now rise: - Two tender shades, two angels me - Given by fate in the days of yore. - But both have wings and flaming swords, - And they watch--... and both are vengeant, - And both to me speak with death tongue - Of Eternity's mysteries, and of the grave. - - 1828. - - - - - ELEGY. - - IV. 85. - - - My wishes I have survived, - My ambition I have outgrown! - Left only is my smart, - The fruit of emptiness of heart. - - Under the storm of cruel Fate - Faded has my blooming crown! - Sad I live and lonely, - And wait: Is nigh my end? - - Thus touched by the belated frost, - When storm's wintry whistle is heard, - On the branch bare and lone - Trembles the belated leaf. - - 1821. - - - - - RESURRECTION. - - IV. 116. - - - With sleepy brush the barbarian artist - The master's painting blackens; - And thoughtlessly his wicked drawing - Over it he is daubing. - - But in years the foreign colors - Peal off, an aged layer: - The work of genius is 'gain before us, - With former beauty out it comes. - - Thus my failings vanish too - From my wearied soul, - And again within it visions rise, - Of my early purer days. - - 1819 - - - - - THE PROPHET. - - IV. 19. - - - Tormented by the thirst for the spirit - I was dragging myself in a sombre desert, - And a six-winged seraph appeared - Unto me on the parting of the roads. - With fingers as light as a dream - Mine eyes he touched: - And mine eyes opened wise - Like the eyes of a frightened eagle; - He touched mine ears, - And they filled with din and ringing. - And I heard the trembling of the heavens - And the flight of the angel's wings, - And the creeping of the polyps in the sea, - And the growth of the vine in the valley. - And he took hold of my lips, - And out he tore my sinful tongue - With its empty and false speech. - And the fang of the wise serpent - Between my terrified lips he placed - With bloody hand. - And ope he cut with sword my breast, - And out he took my trembling heart, - And a coal with flaming blaze - Into the opened breast he shoved. - Like a corpse I lay in the desert. - And the voice of God unto me called: - Arise, O prophet, and listen, and guide. - Be thou filled with my will, - And going over land and sea - Fire with the word the hearts of men! - - 1826. - - - - -Poems: Narrative. - - - THE OUTCAST. - - III. 5. - - - On a rainy autumn evening - Into desert places went a maid; - And the secret fruit of unhappy love - In her trembling hands she held. - All was still: the hills and the woods - Asleep in the darkness of the night. - And her searching glances - In terror about she cast. - - And on this babe, the innocent, - Her glance she paused with a sigh: - Asleep thou art, my child, my grief. - Thou knowest not my sadness. - Thine eyes will ope, and tho' with longing, - To my breast shalt no more cling. - No kiss for thee to-morrow - From thine unhappy mother. - - Beckon in vain for her thou wilt, - My everlasting shame, my guilt! - Me forget thou shalt for aye, - But thee forget shall not I. - Shelter thou shalt receive from strangers, - Who 'll say: Thou art none of ours! - Thou wilt ask, Where are my parents? - But for thee no kin is found! - - Hapless one! With heart filled with sorrow, - Lonely amid thy mates, - Thy spirit sullen to the end, - Thou shalt behold fondling mothers. - A lonely wanderer everywhere - Cursing thy fate at all times, - Thou the bitter reproach shalt hear.... - Forgive me, oh, forgive me then! - - Asleep! let me then, O hapless one - To my bosom press thee once for all. - A law unjust and terrible - Thee and me to sorrow dooms. - While the years have not yet chased - The guiltless joy of thy days, - Sleep, my darling, let no griefs bitter - Mar thy childhood's quiet life! - - But lo! behind the woods, near by - The moon brings a hut to light. - Forlorn, pale, and trembling - To the doors nigh she came. - She stooped and gently laid she down - The babe on the threshold strange. - In terror away her eyes she turned - And in the dark night disappeared. - - 1814. - - - - - THE BLACK SHAWL. - - III. 83. - - - I gaze demented on the black shawl - And my cold soul is torn by grief. - - When young I was and full of trust - I passionately loved a young Greek girl. - - The charming maid, she fondled me, - But soon I lived the black day to see. - - Once as were gathered my jolly guests - A detested Jew knocked at my door. - - Thou art feasting (he whispered) with friends - But betrayed thou art by thy Greek maid. - - Moneys I gave him and curses, - And called my servant the faithful. - - We went: I flew on the wings of my steed; - And tender mercy was silent in me. - - Her threshold no sooner I espied - Dark grew my eyes, and my strength departed. - - The distant chamber I enter alone, - An Armenian embraces my faithless maid. - - Darkness around me; flashed the dagger; - To interrupt his kiss the wretch had no time. - - And long I trampled the headless corpse,-- - And silent and pale at the maid I stared. - - I remember her prayers, her flowing blood, - But perished the girl, and with her my love. - - The shawl I took from the head now dead - And wiped in silence the bleeding steel. - - When came the darkness of eve, my serf - Threw their bodies into the Danube's billows-- - - Since then I kiss no charming eyes, - Since then I know no cheerful days. - - I gaze demented on the black shawl, - And my cold soul is torn by grief. - - 1820. - - - - - THE ROUSSALKA. - - III. 71. - - - By a lake once in forest darkness - A monk his soul was saving, - Ever in stern occupation - Of prayer, fast, and labor. - Already with slackened shovel - The aged man his grave was digging, - And only for death in peace and quiet - To his saintly patrons prayed he. - - Once in summer at the threshold - Of his drooping little hut - To God was praying the hermit. - Darker grew the forest. - Over the lake was rising fog. - And in the clouds the reddish moon - Was gently rolling along the sky. - Upon the waters the hermit gazed. - - He looks, and fears, and knows not why, - Himself he cannot understand.... - Now he sees: the waves are seething - And suddenly again are quiet.... - - Suddenly ... as light as shade of night, - As white as early snow of hills, - Out cometh a woman naked - And on the shore herself she seats. - - Upon the aged monk she gazes - And she combs her moistened tresses-- - The holy monk with terror trembles, - Upon her charms still he gazes; - With her hand to him she beckons - And her head she's quickly nodding.... - And suddenly like a falling star - The dreamy wave she vanished under. - - The sober monk, all night he slept not, - And all day he prayed not - The shadow unwittingly before him - Of the wondrous maid he ever sees. - Again the forest is clad in darkness, - Along the clouds the moon is sailing. - Again the maid above the water, - Pale and splendent there she sits. - - Gaze her eyes, nods her head, - Throws kisses, and she's sporting, - The wave she sprinkles, and she frolics; - Child-like weeping now and laughing; - - Sobbing tender--the monk she calls: - Monk, O monk, to me, to me! - Into the waves transparent she dashes; - And again is all in silence deep. - - But on the third day the roused hermit - The enchanted shores nigh sitting was, - And the beautiful maid he awaited. - Upon the trees were falling shades.... - Night at last by dawn was chased-- - And nowhere monk could be found, - His beard alone, the gray one - In the water the boys could see. - - 1819. - - - - - THE COSSAK. - - III. 14. - - - Once at midnight hour, - Darkness thro' and fog, - Quiet by the river - Rode a Cossak brave. - - Black his cap upon his ear, - Dust-covered is his coat, - By his knee the pistols hang - And nigh the ground his sword. - - The faithful steed, rein not feeling - Is walking slowly on, - (Long its mane is, and is waving) - Ever further it keeps on. - - Now before him two--three huts: - Broken is the fence; - To the village here the road, - To the forest there. - - "Not in forest maid is found," - Dennis thinks, the brave. - "To their chambers went the maids; - Are gone for the night." - - The son of Don he pulls the rein - And the spur he strikes: - Like an arrow rushed the steed-- - To the huts he turned. - - In the clouds the distant sky - Was silvering the moon; - A Beauty-Maid in melancholy - By the window sits. - - Espies the brave the Beauty-Maid, - Beats his heart within: - Gently steed to left, to left-- - Under the window now is he. - - "Darker growing is the night - And hidden is the moon; - Quick, my darling, do come out, - Water give my steed." - - "No, not unto a man so young; - Right fearful't is to go; - Fearful't is my house to leave, - And water give thy steed." - - "Have no fear, O Beauty-Maid, - And friendship close with me"-- - "Brings danger night to Beauty-Maids," - "Fear me not, O joy of mine! - - "Trust me, dear, thy fear is vain, - Away with terror groundless! - Time thou losest precious, - Fear not, O my darling! - - Mount my steed; with thee I will - To distant regions gallop; - Blest with me be thou shalt, - Heaven with mate is everywhere." - - And the maid? Over she bends, - Her fear is overcome, - Bashfully to ride consents, - And the Cossak happy is. - - Off they dart, away they fly; - Are loving one another. - Faithful he for two brief weeks, - Forsook her on the third. - - 1815. - - - - - THE DROWNED. - - IV. 185. - - - Into the hut the children run, - In haste they called their father: - "Papa, papa, oh, our nets - Out a corpse have dragged." - "Ye lie, ye lie, ye little devils" - Upon them father grumbled. - "I declare, those wicked brats! - Corpse now too have they must! - - "Down will come the court, 'Give answer!' - And for an age no rest from it. - But what to do? Heigh, wife, there, - My coat give me, must get there somehow.... - Now where's the corpse?"--"Here, papa, here!" - And in truth along the river, - Where is spread the moistened net, - Upon the sand is seen the corpse. - - Disfigured terribly the corpse is, - Is blue, and all is swollen. - Is it a hapless sorrower, - Who ruined has his sinful soul, - Or by the waves a fisher taken, - Or some fellow, drunkard, - Or by robbers stripped, perchance, - Trader some, unbusinesslike? - - To the peasant, what is this? - About he looks and hastens.... - Seizes he the body drowned, - By the feet to water drags it, - And from the shore the winding - Off he pushes it with oar - Downward 'gain floats the corpse, - And grave, and cross still is seeking. - - And long the dead among the waves, - As if living, swinging, floated; - With his eyes the peasant him - Homeward going, followed. - "Ye little dogs, now follow me, - Each of you a cake shall have; - But look ye out, and hold your tongues! - Else a thrashing shall ye have." - - At night the wind to blow began - Full of waves became the river; - Out the light was already going - In the peasant's smoky hut. - The children sleep; the mother slumbers. - On the oven husband lies. - Howls the storm; a sudden knocking - He hears of some one at the window. - - "Who's there?"--"Ope the door I say!" - "Time eno'; what is the matter? - Wherefore comes tramp at night? - By the devil art hither brought! - Wherefore with you should I bother? - Crowded my house and dark is." - So saying, he with lazy hand - Open throws the window. - - Rolls the moon from behind the clouds-- - And now? A naked man before him stands; - From his beard a stream is flowing - His glance is fixed, and is open. - All about him is frightful dumbness - And his hands are dropped down; - And to the puffed-out, swollen body - Black crabs are fastened. - - The peasant quickly shuts the window; - He recognized his naked guest, - Is terror-struck. "May you burst!" - Out he whispered and trembled. - In great confusion now his thoughts are, - And all night he shakes in fever; - And till the morrow still the knocking - 'S heard on the window and at the gates. - - Report there was among the people: - Saying, since then every year - Waiting is the hapless peasant - For his guest on the appointed day. - In the morning the weather changes - And at night the storm arrives, - And the dead man is ever knocking - By the window, and at the gates. - - 1828. - - - - -Poems of Nature. - - - THE BIRDLET. - - I. 171. - - - God's birdlet knows - Nor care, nor toil; - Nor weaves it painfully - An everlasting nest. - Thro' the long night on the twig it slumbers; - When rises the red sun - Birdie listens to the voice of God - And it starts, and it sings. - When Spring, Nature's Beauty, - And the burning summer have passed, - And the fog, and the rain, - By the late fall are brought, - Men are wearied, men are grieved, - But birdie flies into distant lands, - Into warm climes, beyond the blue sea: - Flies away until the spring. - - 1824. - - - - - THE CLOUD. - - IV. 95. - - - O last cloud of the scattered storm, - Alone thou sailest along the azure clear; - Alone thou bringest the shadow sombre, - Alone thou marrest the joyful day. - - Thou but recently had'st encircled the sky - When sternly the lightning was winding about thee; - Thou gavest forth mysterious thunder, - With rain hast watered the parched earth. - - Enough! Hie thyself: thy time hath passed: - Earth is refreshed; the storm hath fled; - And the breeze, fondling the trees' leaves - Forth thee chases from the quieted heavens! - - 1835. - - - - - THE NORTH WIND. - - IV. 94. - - - Why, O wrathful north wind, thou - The marshy shrub dost downward bend? - Why thus in the distant sky-vault - Wrathfully the cloud dost chase? - - The black clouds but recently - Had spread the whole heavens o'er, - The oak on hill top but recently - In beauty wondrous itself was priding. - - Thou hast risen, and up hast played, - With terror resounded, and with splendor-- - And away are driven the stormy clouds; - Down is hurled the mighty oak. - - Let now then the sun's clear face - With joy henceforth ever shine, - With the clouds now the zephyr play, - And the bush in quiet sway. - - 1824. - - - - - WINTER MORNING. - - IV. 164. - - - Frost and sun--the day is wondrous! - Thou still art slumbering, charming friend. - 'Tis time, O Beauty, to awaken: - Ope thine eyes, now in sweetness closed, - To meet the Northern Dawn of Morning - Thyself a north-star do thou appear! - - Last night, remember, the storm scolded, - And darkness floated in the clouded sky; - Like a yellow, clouded spot - Thro' the clouds the moon was gleaming,-- - And melancholy thou wert sitting-- - But now ... thro' the window cast a look: - - Stretched beneath the heavens blue - Carpet-like magnificent, - In the sun the snow is sparkling; - Dark alone is the wood transparent, - And thro' the hoar gleams green the fir, - And under the ice the rivulet sparkles. - - Entire is lighted with diamond splendor - Thy chamber ... with merry crackle - The wood is crackling in the oven. - To meditation invites the sofa. - But know you? In the sleigh not order why - The brownish mare to harness? - - Over the morning snow we gliding - Trust we shall, my friend, ourselves - To the speed of impatient steed; - Visit we shall the fields forsaken, - The woods, dense but recently, - And the banks so dear to me. - - 1829. - - - - - WINTER EVENING. - - IV. 166. - - - The storm the sky with darkness covers, - The snowy whirlings twisting; - Like a beast wild now is howling, - Like an infant now is crying; - Over the aged roof now sudden - In the straw it rustling is; - Like a traveller now belated - For entrance at our window knocking. - - With melancholy and with darkness - Our little, aged hut is filled - Why in silence then thou sittest - By the window, wife old mine? - Or by the howling storms art - Wearied thou, O companion mine? - Or perchance art slumbering, - By the rustling spindle soothed? - - Let us drink, O kindly friend - Of my poverty and youth, - Away with grief,--where is the cup? - Joy it shall bring to our heart. - - A song now sing me, how the bird - Beyond the sea in quiet lived; - A song now sing me, how the maiden - In the morning for water went. - - The storm the sky with darkness covers, - The snowy whirlings twisting; - Like a beast wild now is howling, - Like an infant now is crying. - Let us drink, O kindly friend - Of my poverty and youth, - Away with grief,--where is the cup - Joy it shall bring to our heart! - - 1826. - - - - - THE WINTER-ROAD. - - IV. 161. - - - Breaking thro' the waving fogs - Forth the moon is coming, - And on the gloomy acres - She gloomy light is shedding. - - Along the wintry, cheerless road - Flies the rapid troika - The little bell monotonous - Wearily is tinkling. - - A certain homefulness is heard - In the driver's lengthy lays: - Now light-hearted carelessness, - Now low-spirited sadness. - - Neither light, nor a dark hut ... - Only snow and silence.... - Striped mileposts are alone - The travellers who meet us. - - Sad I feel and weary.... On the morrow, Nina, - To my beloved I returning - Forget myself shall by the fire - And scarce eno' at her shall gaze. - - Loudly of my watch the spring - Its measured circle is completing - And us the parter of the wearied, - Midnight, not shall separate. - - Sad I'm, Nina; my journey's weary; - Slumbering now, my driver is quiet - The little bell is monotonous - And darkened now is the moon's face. - - 1826. - - - - - Poems of Love. - - - - THE STORM-[MAID]. - - IV. 146. - - - Hast thou seen on the rock the maid, - In robe of white above the waves, - When seething in the storm dark - Played the sea with its shores,-- - When the glare of lightning hourly - With rosy glimmer her lighted up, - And the wind beating and flapping - Struggled with her flying robe? - - Beautiful's the sea in the storm dark, - Glorious is the sky even without its blue - But trust me: on the rock the maid - Excels both wave, and sky, and storm. - - 1825. - - - - - THE BARD. - - III. 43. - - - Have ye heard in the woods the nightly voice - Of the bard of love, of the bard of his grief? - When the fields in the morning hour were still, - The flute's sad sound and simple - Have ye heard? - - Have ye met in the desert darkness of the forest - The bard of love, the bard of his grief? - Was it a track of tears, was it a smile, - Or a quiet glance filled with melancholy, - Have ye met? - - Have ye sighed, listening to the calm voice - Of the bard of love, of the bard of grief? - When in the woods the youth ye saw - And met the glance of his dulled eyes, - Have ye sighed? - - 1816. - - - - - SPANISH LOVE-SONG. - - - IV. 136. - - - Evening Zephyr - Waves the ether. - Murmurs, - Rushes - The Guadalquivir. - - Now the golden moon has risen, - Quiet,... Tshoo ... guitar's now heard.... - Now the Spanish girl young - O'er the balcony has leaned. - - Evening Zephyr - Waves the ether. - Murmurs, - Rushes - The Guadalquivir. - - Drop thy mantle, angel gentle, - And appear as fair as day! - Thro' the iron balustrade - Put thy wondrous tender foot! - - Evening Zephyr - Waves the ether. - Murmurs, - Rushes - The Guadalquivir. - - 1824. - - - - - [LOVE.] - - IV. 152. - - - Bitterly groaning, jealous maid the youth was scolding; - He, on her shoulder leaning, suddenly was in slumber lost. - Silent forthwith is the maid; his light sleep now fondles she - Now she smiles upon him, and is shedding gentle tears. - - 1835. - - - - - [JEALOUSY.] - - IV. 85. - - Damp day's light is quenched: damp night's darkness - Stretches over the sky its leaden garment. - Like a ghost, from behind the pine wood - Foggy moon has risen.... - All brings upon my soul darkness grievous. - Far, far away rises the shining moon, - There the earth is filled with evening warmth - There the sea moveth with luxuriant wave - Under the heavens blue.... - Now is the time. On the hillside now she walks - To the shore washed by noisy waves. - There, under the billowed cliffs - Alone she sits now melancholy.... - Alone ... none before her weeping, grieves not, - Her knees none kisses in ecstasy. - Alone ... to lips of none she is yielding - Her shoulders, nor moist lips, nor snow-white fingers. - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . - None is worthy of her heavenly love. - Is it not so? Thou art alone.... Thou weepest.... - And I at peace? . . . . . . . - . . . . . . . . . . . . . - But if . . . . . . . - - 1823. - - - - - IN AN ALBUM. - - IV. 99. - - - The name of me, what is it to thee - Die it shall like the grievous sound - Of wave, playing on distant shore, - As sound of night in forest dark. - - Upon the sheet of memory - Its traces dead leave it shall - Inscriptions-like of grave-yard - In some foreign tongue. - - What is in it? Long ago forgotten - In tumultuous waves and fresh - To thy soul not give it shall - Pure memories and tender. - - But on sad days, in calmness - Do pronounce it sadly; - Say then: I do remember thee-- - On earth one heart is where yet I live! - - 1829. - - - - - THE AWAKING. - - III. 42. - - - Ye dreams, ye dreams, - Where is your sweetness? - Where thou, where thou - O joy of night? - Disappeared has it, - The joyous dream; - And solitary - In darkness deep - I awaken. - Round my bed - Is silent night. - At once are cooled, - At once are fled, - All in a crowd - The dreams of Love-- - Still with longing - The soul is filled - And grasps of sleep - The memory. - O Love, O Love, - O hear my prayer: - Again send me - Those visions thine, - And on the morrow - Raptured anew - Let me die - Without awaking! - - 1816. - - - - - ELEGY. - - III. 39. - - - Happy who to himself confess - His passion dares without terror; - Happy who in fate uncertain - By modest hope is fondled; - Happy who by foggy moonbeams - Is led to midnight joyful - And with faithful key who gently - The door unlocks of his beloved. - - But for me in sad my life - No joy there is of secret pleasure; - Hope's early flower faded is, - By struggle withered is life's flower. - Youth away flies melancholy, - And droop with me life's roses; - But by Love tho' long forgot, - Forget Love's tears I cannot. - - 1816. - - - - - [FIRST LOVE.] - - I. 112. - - - Not at once our youth is faded, - Not at once our joys forsake us, - And happiness we unexpected - Yet embrace shall more than once; - But ye, impressions never-dying - Of newly trepidating Love, - And thou, first flame of Intoxication,-- - Not flying back are coming ye! - - - - - ELEGY. - - III. 99. - - - Hushed I soon shall be. But if on sorrow's day - My songs to me with pensive play replied; - But if the youths to me, in silence listening - At my love's long torture were marvelling; - But if thou thyself, to tenderness yielding - Repeated in quiet my melancholy verses - And didst love my heart's passionate language; - But if I am loved:--grant then, O dearest friend, - That my beautiful beloved's coveted name - Breathe life into my lyre's farewell. - When for aye embraced I am by sleep of Death, - Over my urn do with tenderness pronounce: - "By me he loved was, to me he owed - Of his love and song his last inspiration." - - 1821. - - - - - THE BURNT LETTER. - - IV. 87. - - - Good-bye, love-letter, good-bye! 'T is her command.... - How long I waited, how long my hand - To the fire my joys to yield was loath! ... - But eno', the hour has come: burn, letter of my love! - I am ready: listens more my soul to nought. - Now the greedy flame thy sheets shall lick ... - A minute! ... they crackle, they blaze ... a light smoke - Curls and is lost with prayer mine. - Now the finger's faithful imprint losing - Burns the melted wax.... O Heavens! - Done it is! curled in are the dark sheets; - Upon their ashes light the lines adored - Are gleaming.... My breast is heavy. Ashes dear, - In my sorrowful lot but poor consolation, - Remain for aye with me on my weary breast.... - - 1825. - - - - - [SING NOT, BEAUTY.] - - IV. 135. - - - Sing not, Beauty, in my presence, - Of Transcaucasia sad the songs, - Of distant shore, another life, - The memory to me they bring. - - Alas, alas, remind they do, - These cruel strains of thine, - Of steppes, and night, and of the moon - And of distant, poor maid's features. - - The vision loved, tender, fated, - Forget can I, when thee I see - But when thou singest, then before me - Up again it rises. - - Sing not, Beauty, in my presence - Of Transcaucasia sad the songs, - Of distant shore, another life - The memory to me they bring. - - 1828. - - - - - SIGNS. - - IV. 125. - - - To thee I rode: living dreams then - Behind me winding in playful crowd; - My sportive trot my shoulder over - The moon upon my right was chasing. - - From thee I rode: other dreams now.... - My loving soul now sad was, - And the moon at left my side - Companion mine now sad was. - - To dreaming thus in quiet ever - Singers we are given over; - Marks thus of superstition - Soul's feeling with are in accord! - - 1829. - - - - - A PRESENTIMENT. - - IV. 97. - - - The clouds again are o'er me, - Have gathered in the stillness; - Again me with misfortune - Envious fate now threatens. - Will I keep my defiance? - Will I bring against her - The firmness and patience - Of my youthful pride? - - Wearied by a stormy life - I await the storm fretless - Perhaps once more safe again - A harbor shall I find.... - But I feel the parting nigh, - Unavoidable, fearful hour, - To press thy hand for the last time - I haste to thee, my angel. - - Angel gentle, angel calm, - Gently tell me: fare thee well. - Be thou grieved: thy tender gaze - Either drop or to me raise. - The memory of thee now shall - To my soul replace - The strength, the pride and the hope, - The daring of my former days! - - 1828. - - - - - [IN VAIN, DEAR FRIEND.] - - III. 221. - - - In vain, dear friend, to conceal I tried - The turmoil cold of my grieving soul; - Now me thou knowest; goes by the intoxication. - And no longer thee I love.... - Vanished for aye the bewitching hours, - The beautiful time has passed, - Youthful desires extinguished are - And lifeless hope is in my heart.... - - - - - [LOVE'S DEBT.] - - IV. 101. - - - For the shores of thy distant home - Thou hast forsaken the foreign land; - In a memorable, sad hour - I before thee cried long. - Tho' cold my hands were growing - Thee back to hold they tried; - And begged of thee my parting groan - The gnawing weariness not to break. - - But from my bitter kisses thou - Thy lips away hast torn; - From the land of exile dreary - Calling me to another land. - Thou saidst: on the day of meeting - Beneath a sky forever blue - Olives' shade beneath, love's kisses - Again, my friend, we shall unite. - - But where, alas! the vaults of sky - Shining are with glimmer blue, - Where 'neath the rocks the waters slumber-- - With last sleep art sleeping thou. - And beauty thine and sufferings - In the urnal grave have disappeared-- - But the kiss of meeting is also gone.... - But still I wait: thou art my debtor! ... - - - - - INVOCATION. - - III. 146. - - - Oh, if true it is that by night - When resting are the living - And from the sky the rays of moon - Along the stones of church-yard glide; - O, if true it is that emptied then - Are the quiet graves, - I call thy shade, I wait my Lila - Come hither, come hither, my friend, to me! - - Appear, O shade of my beloved - As thou before our parting wert: - Pale, cold, like a wintry day - Disfigured by thy struggle of death, - Come like unto a distant star, - Or like a fearful apparition, - 'T is all the same: Come hither, come hither - - And I call thee, not in order - To reproach him whose wickedness - My friend hath slain. - Nor to fathom the grave's mysteries, - Nor because at times I'm worn - With gnawing doubt ... but I sadly - Wish to say that still I love thee, - That wholly thine I am: hither come, O hither! - - 1828. - - - - - ELEGY. - - IV. 100. - - - The extinguished joy of crazy years - On me rests heavy, like dull debauch. - But of by-gone days the grief, like wine - In my soul the older, the stronger 't grows. - Dark my path. Toil and pain promised are me - By the Future's roughened sea. - - But not Death, O friends, I wish! - But Life I wish: to think and suffer; - Well I know, for me are joys in store - 'Mid struggles, toils, and sorrows: - Yet 'gain at times shall harmony drink in - And tears I'll shed over Fancy's fruit,-- - Yet mayhap at my saddened sunset - Love will beam with farewell and smile. - - 1830. - - - - - SORROW. - - III. 69. - - - Ask not why with sad reflection - 'Mid gayety I oft am darkened, - Why ever cheerless eyes I raise, - Why sweet life's dream not dear to me is; - Ask not why with frigid soul - I joyous love no longer crave, - And longer none I call dear: - Who once has loved, not again can love; - Who bliss has known, ne'er again shall know; - For one brief moment to us 't is given: - Of youth, of joy, of tenderness - Is left alone the sadness. - - 1817. - - - - - DESPAIR. - - III. 41. - - - Dear my friend, we are now parted, - My soul's asleep; I grieve in silence. - Gleams the day behind the mountain blue, - Or rises the night with moon autumnal,-- - Still thee I seek, my far off friend, - Thee alone remember I everywhere, - Thee alone in restless sleep I see. - Pauses my mind, unwittingly thee I call; - Listens mine ear, then thy voice I hear. - - And thou my lyre, my despair dost share, - Of sick my soul companion thou! - Hollow is and sad the sound of thy string, - Grief's sound alone hast not forgot.... - Faithful lyre, with me grieve thou! - Let thine easy note and careless - Sing of love mine and despair, - And while listening to thy singing - May thoughtfully the maidens sigh! - - 1816. - - - - - A WISH. - - III. 38. - - - Slowly my days are dragging - And in my faded heart each moment doubles - All the sorrows of hopeless love - And heavy craze upsets me. - But I am silent. Heard not is my murmur. - Tears I shed ... they are my consolation; - My soul in sorrow steeped - Finds enjoyment bitter in them. - O flee, life's dream, thee not regret I! - In darkness vanish, empty vision! - Dear to me is of love my pain, - Let me die, but let me die still loving! - - 1816. - - - - - [RESIGNED LOVE.] - - IV. 99. - - - Thee I loved; not yet love perhaps is - In my heart entirely quenched - But trouble let it thee no more; - Thee to grieve with nought I wish. - Silent, hopeless thee I loved, - By fear tormented, now by jealousy; - So sincere my love, so tender, - May God the like thee grant from another. - - - - - [LOVE AND FREEDOM.] - - III. 157. - - - Child of Nature and simple, - Thus to sing was wont I - Sweet the dream of freedom-- - With tenderness my breast it filled. - - But thee I see, thee I hear-- - And now? Weak become I. - With freedom lost forever - With all my heart I bondage prize. - - - - - [NOT AT ALL.] - - IV. 118. - - - I thought forgotten has the heart - Of suffering the easy art; - Not again can be, said I - Not again what once has been. - - Of Love the sorrows gone were, - Now calm were my airy dreams.... - But behold! again they tremble - Beauty's mighty power before!... - - - - - [INSPIRING LOVE.] - - IV. 117. - - - The moment wondrous I remember - Thou before me didst appear - Like a flashing apparition, - Like a spirit of beauty pure. - - 'Mid sorrows of hopeless grief, - 'Mid tumults of noiseful bustle, - Rang long to me thy tender voice, - Came dreams to me of thy lovely features. - - Went by the years. The storm's rebellious rush - The former dreams had scattered - And I forgot thy tender voice, - I forgot thy heavenly features. - - In the desert, in prison's darkness, - Quietly my days were dragging; - No reverence, nor inspiration, - Nor tears, nor life, nor love. - - But at last awakes my soul: - And again didst thou appear: - Like a flashing apparition, - Like a spirit of beauty pure. - - And enraptured beats my heart, - And risen are for it again - Both reverence, and inspiration - And life, and tears, and love. - - 1825. - - - - - [THE GRACES.] - - III. 160. - - - Till now no faith I had in Graces: - Seemed strange to me their triple sight; - Thee I see, and with faith am filled - Adoring now in one the three! - - - - -Poems: miscellaneous. - - - - THE BIRDLET. - - IV. 133. - - - In exile I sacredly observe - The custom of my fatherland: - I freedom to a birdlet give - On Spring's holiday serene. - And now I too have consolation: - Wherefore murmur against my God - When at least to one living being - I could of freedom make a gift? - - 1823. - - - - - THE NIGHTINGALE. - - IV. 145. - - - In silent gardens, in the spring, in the darkness of the night - Sings above the rose from the east the nightingale; - But dear rose neither feeling has, nor listens it, - But under its lover's hymn waveth it and slumbers. - - Dost thou not sing thus to beauty cold? - Reflect, O bard, whither art thou striding? - She neither listens, nor the bard she feels. - Thou gazest? Bloom she does; thou callest?-- - Answer none she gives! - - 1827. - - - - - THE FLOWERET. - - IV. 95. - - - A floweret, withered, odorless - In a book forgot I find; - And already strange reflection - Cometh into my mind. - - Bloomed, where? when? In what spring? - And how long ago? And plucked by whom? - Was it by a strange hand? Was it by a dear hand? - And wherefore left thus here? - - Was it in memory of a tender meeting? - Was it in memory of a fated parting? - Was it in memory of a lonely walk? - In the peaceful fields or in the shady woods? - - Lives he still? Lives she still? - And where their nook this very day? - Or are they too withered - Like unto this unknown floweret? - - 1828. - - - - - THE HORSE. - - IV. 271. - - - Why dost thou neigh, O spirited steed, - Why thy neck so low, - Why thy mane unshaken - Why thy bit not gnawed? - Do I then not fondle thee? - Thy grain to eat art thou not free? - Is not thy harness ornamented, - Is not thy rein of silk, - Is not thy shoe of silver, - Thy stirrup not of gold? - - The steed in sorrow answer gives: - Hence am I quiet - Because the distant tramp I hear, - The trumpet's blow and the arrow's whizz - And hence I neigh, since in the field - No longer feed I shall, - Nor in beauty live and fondling, - Neither shine with harness bright. - - For soon the stern enemy - My harness whole shall take - And the shoes of silver - Tear he shall from feet mine light. - Hence it is that grieves my spirit: - That in place of my chaprak - With thy skin shall cover he - My perspiring sides. - - 1833. - - - - - TO A BABE. - - IV. 144. - - - Child, I dare not over thee - Pronounce a blessing; - Thou art of consolation a quiet angel - May then happy be thy lot.... - - - - - THE POET. - - (IV. 2). - - - Ere the poet summoned is - To Apollo's holy sacrifice - In the world's empty cares - Engrossed is half-hearted he. - - His holy lyre silent is - And cold sleep his soul locks in; - And of the world's puny children, - Of all puniest perhaps is he. - - Yet no sooner the heavenly word - His keen ear hath reached, - Than up trembles the singer's soul - Like unto an awakened eagle. - - The world's pastimes him now weary - And mortals' gossip now he shuns - To the feet of popular idol - His lofty head bends not he. - - Wild and stern, rushes he, - Of tumult full and sound, - To the shores of desert wave, - Into the widely-whispering wood. - - 1827. - - - - - TO THE POET. - - SONNET. - - - (IV. 9). - - Poet, not popular applause shalt thou prize! - Of raptured praise shall pass the momentary noise; - The fool's judgment hear thou shalt, and the cold mob's laughter-- - Calm stand, and firm be, and--sober! - - Thou art king: live alone. On the free road - Walk, whither draws thee thy spirit free: - Ever the fruits of beloved thoughts ripening, - Never reward for noble deeds demanding. - - In thyself reward seek. Thine own highest court thou art; - Severest judge, thine own works canst measure. - Art thou content, O fastidious craftsman? - Content? Then let the mob scold, - And spit upon the altar, where blazes thy fire. - Thy tripod in childlike playfulness let it shake. - - - - - THE THREE SPRINGS. - - IV. 134. - - - In the world's desert, sombre and shoreless - Mysteriously three springs have broken thro': - Of youth the spring, a boisterous spring and rapid; - It boils, it runs, it sparkles, and it murmurs. - The Castalian Spring, with wave of inspiration - In the world's deserts its exiles waters; - The last spring--the cold spring of forgetfulness, - Of all sweetest, quench it does the heart's fire. - - 1827. - - - - - THE TASK. - - IV. 151. - - - The longed-for moment here is. Ended is my long-yeared task. - Why then sadness strange me troubles secretly? - My task done, like needless hireling am I to stand, - My wage in hand, to other task a stranger? - Or my task regret I, of night companion silent mine, - Gold Aurora's friend, the friend of my sacred household gods? - - 1830. - - - - - SLEEPLESSNESS. - - IV. 101. - - - I cannot sleep, I have no light; - Darkness 'bout me, and sleep is slow; - The beat monotonous alone - Near me of the clock is heard. - Of the Fates the womanish babble, - Of sleeping night the trembling, - Of life the mice-like running-about,-- - Why disturbing me art thou? - What art thou, O tedious whisper? - The reproaches, or the murmur - Of the day by me misspent? - What from me wilt thou have? - Art thou calling or prophesying? - Thee I wish to understand, - Thy tongue obscure I study now. - - 1830. - - - - - [QUESTIONINGS.] - - IV. 98. - - Useless gift, accidental gift, - Life, why given art thou me? - Or, why by fate mysterious - To torture art thou doomed? - - Who with hostile power me - Out has called from the nought? - Who my soul with passion thrilled, - Who my spirit with doubt has filled?... - - Goal before me there is none, - My heart is hollow, vain my mind - And with sadness wearies me - Noisy life's monotony. - - 1828. - - - - - [CONSOLATION.] - - IV. 142. - - - Life,--does it disappoint thee? - Grieve not, nor be angry thou! - In days of sorrow gentle be: - Come shall, believe, the joyful day. - - In the future lives the heart: - Is the present sad indeed? - 'T is but a moment, all will pass; - Once in the past, it shall be dear. - - 1825. - - - - - [FRIENDSHIP.] - - III. 201. - - - Thus it ever was and ever will be, - Such of old is the world wide: - The learned are many, the sages few, - Acquaintance many, but not a friend! - - - - - [FAME.] - - III. 102. - - - Blessed who to himself has kept - His creation highest of the soul, - And from his fellows as from the graves - Expected not appreciation! - Blessed he who in silence sang - And the crown of fame not wearing, - By mob despised and forgotten, - Forsaken nameless has the world! - Deceiver greater than dreams of hope, - What is fame? The adorer's whisper? - Or the boor's persecution? - Or the rapture of the fool? - - 1824. - - - - - THE ANGEL. - - IV. 108. - - - At the gates of Eden a tender angel - With drooping head was shining; - A demon gloomy and rebellious - Over hell's abyss was flying. - - The Spirit of Denial, the Spirit of Doubt - The Spirit of Purity espied; - And a tender warmth unwittingly - Now first to know it learned he. - - Adieu, he spake, thee I saw: - Not in vain hast thou shone before me; - Not all in the world have I hated, - Not all in the world have I scorned. - - 1827. - - - - - [HOME-SICKNESS.] - - III. 131. - - - Mayhap not long am destined I - In exile peaceful to remain, - Of dear days of yore to sigh, - And rustic muse in quiet - With spirit calm to follow. - - But even far, in foreign land, - In thought forever roam I shall - Around Trimountain mine: - By meadows, river, by its hills, - By garden, linden nigh the house. - - Thus when darkens day the clear, - Alone from depths of grave, - Spirit home-longing - Into the native hall flies - To espy the loved ones with tender glance. - - 1825. - - - - - [INSANITY.] - - III. 149. - - - God grant I grow not insane: - No, better the stick and beggar's bag: - No, better toil and hunger bear. - - Not that I upon my reason - Such value place; not that I - Would fain not lose it. - - If freedom to me they would leave - How I would lasciviously - For the gloomy forest rush! - - In hot delirium I would sing - And unconscious would remain - With ravings wondrous and chaotic. - - And listen would I to the waves - And gaze I would full of bliss - Into the empty heavens. - - And free and strong then would I be - Like a storm the fields updigging, - Forest-trees uprooting. - - But here's the trouble: if crazy once, - A fright thou art like pestilence, - And locked up now shalt thou be. - - To a chain thee, fool, they 'll fasten - And through the gate, a circus beast, - Thee to nettle the people come. - - And at night not hear shall I - Clear the voice of nightingale - Nor the forest's hollow sound, - - But cries alone of companions mine - And the scolding guards of night - And a whizzing, of chains a ringing. - - - - - [DEATH-THOUGHTS.] - - IV. 93. - - - Whether I roam along the noisy streets - Whether I enter the peopled temple, - Whether I sit by thoughtless youth, - Haunt my thoughts me everywhere. - - I say, Swiftly go the years by: - However great our number now, - Must all descend the eternal vaults,-- - Already struck has some one's hour. - - And if I gaze upon the lonely oak - I think: the patriarch of the woods - Will survive my passing age - As he survived my father's age. - - And if a tender babe I fondle - Already I mutter, Fare thee well! - I yield my place to thee. For me - 'T is time to decay, to bloom for thee - - Every year thus, every day - With death my thought I join - Of coming death the day - I seek among them to divine. - - Where will Fortune send me death? - In battle? In wanderings, or on the waves - Or shall the valley neighboring - Receive my chilled dust? - - But tho' the unfeeling body - Can everywhere alike decay, - Still I, my birthland nigh - Would have my body lie. - - Let near the entrance to my grave - Cheerful youth be in play engaged, - And let indifferent creation - With beauty shine there eternally. - - 1829. - - - - - [RIGHTS.] - - IV. 10. - - - Not dear I prize high-sounding rights - By which is turned more head than one; - Not murmur I that not granted the Gods to me - The blessed lot of discussing fates, - Of hindering kings from fighting one another; - And little care I whether free the press is. - - All this you see are _words, words, words!_ - Other, better rights, dear to me are; - Other, better freedom is my need.... - To depend on rulers, or the mob-- - Is not all the same it? God be with them! - To give account to none; to thyself alone - To serve and please; for power, for a livery - Nor soul, nor mind, nor neck to bend: - Now here, now there to roam in freedom - Nature's beauties divine admiring, - And before creations of art and inspiration - Melt silently in tender ecstasy-- - This is bliss, these are rights!.... - - - - - THE GYPSIES. - - IV. 157. - - - Over the wooded banks, - In the hour of evening quiet, - Under the tents are song and bustle - And the fires are scattered. - - Thee I greet, O happy race! - I recognize thy blazes, - I myself at other times - These tents would have followed. - - With the early rays to-morrow - Shall disappear your freedom's trace, - Go you will--but not with you - Longer go shall the bard of you. - - He alas, the changing lodgings, - And the pranks of days of yore - Has forgot for rural comforts - And for the quiet of a home. - - - - - THE DELIBASH. - - IV. 155. - - - Cross-firing behind the hills: - Both camps watch, theirs and ours; - In front of Cossaks on the hill - Dashes 'long brave Delibash - - O Delibash, not to the line come nigh, - Do have mercy on thy life; - Quick 't is over with thy frolic bold, - Pierced thou by the spear shalt be - - Hey, Cossak, not to battle rush - The Delibash is swift as wind; - Cut he will with crooked sabre - From thy shoulders thy fearless head. - - They rush with yell: are hand to hand; - And behold now what each befalls: - Already speared the Delibash is - Already headless the Cossak is! - - - - - -Notes. - - -MY PEDIGREE. - -These lines owe their origin to a public attack on Pushkin by Bulgarin, -a literary magnate of those days. Bulgarin disliked Pushkin and, -therefore, saw no merit in his poetry. But unable to argue against his -poetry, he argued against Pushkin's person, and abused the poet for -his fondness to refer to his ancient ancestry. Stung to the quick by -a childish paragraph in Bulgarin's organ, "The Northern Bee," Pushkin -wrote these lines. But on their publication which, I think, took place -some time after they were written, though they went into circulation -immediately, they made much bad blood. The Menshchikofs did not like to -be reminded of the cakes their ancestor sold, nor the Rasumofskys of -the fact that their countship was earned by the good voice of the first -of that name. And the Kutaissoffs did not like to be told that Count -Kutaissoff was originally Paul's shoe-black. The very pride in his -ancestors, which made Pushkin ridiculous in the eyes of his enemies, -made him forget the fact that selling cakes and blacking shoes, even -though they be an emperor's, is by no means a thing to be ashamed of; -and that, even if it were a thing to be ashamed of, the descendants -of evil-doers are by no means responsible for the deeds of their -ancestors.... The poem, therefore, is an excellent document, not only -for the history of the nobility of Russia, but also for that of poor -Pushkin's soul. - -_Nobleman by cross._ There are two kinds of noblemen in Russia: those -who inherit their title, and those who acquire it. Whoever attains a -certain cross as a reward for his service under the government (not, -alas, _the_ cross of true nobility, Christ's cross!) becomes thereby a -"nobleman." - -_Our nobility but recent is: the more recent it, the nobler 't is._ -This was written fifty years ago, and thousands of miles away from -here. But one would almost believe these lines written in our day, and -at no great distance from Commonwealth Avenue,--so true is it that man -remains, after all, the same in all climes, at all times.... - -_Of Nizhny Novgorod the citizen plain._ The butcher Minin is here -meant, who, with Prince Pozharsky, delivered Moscow from the Poles just -before the Romanoffs were called to the throne. - -_We upon it laid our hands._ Six Pushkins signed this call, and two had -to lay their hand to the paper, because they could not write their own -names. - -_Simply Pushkin, not Moussin._ The Moussin-Pushkins of that day were a -very rich and influential family. - - - -MY MONUMENT. - -In its present form, this poem did not appear till 1881. After -Pushkin's death it appeared only when altered by Zhukofsky in several -places. The Alexander Column being the tallest monument in Russia, -Pushkin, writing for Russians, used that as an illustration; but the -government could not let the sacrilege pass,--of a _poet's_ monument -ever being taller, even figuratively, than a Russian emperor's. In -1837, therefore, the poet was made to say, "Napoleon's column." The -line in the fourth stanza, which speaks of Freedom, was altered -to "That I was useful by the living charm of verse," and in this -mutilated form this stanza is engraved on the poet's monument in -Moscow, unveiled in 1880. - - - -MY MUSE. - -I originally passed over this poem as unworthy of translation, because -I thought it not universal enough; because it seemed to me to express -not the human heart, but the individual heart,--Pushkin's heart. But -the great Byelinsky taught me better. He quotes these lines as a marvel -of classic, of Greek art. "See," he exclaims, "the Hellenic, the -artistic manner (and this is saying the same thing) in which Pushkin -has told us of his call, heard by him even in the days of his youth. -Yes, maugre the happy attempts of Batushkof in this direction before -Pushkin's day, _such_ verses had not been seen till Pushkin in the -Russian land!" And Byelinsky is right. He _saw._ The great critic is -thus an eye-opener, because he sees his author, and because seeing -him he cannot help loving him. For if men truly _knew_ one another -(assuming them to be unselfish), they would love one another.... A -hater is blind though he sees; a lover sees though he be blind. See, -also, about this piece, Introduction, § 4. - - - -MY DEMON. - -To this poem Pushkin added a note, which he intended to send to -the periodical press, as if it were the comment of a third person. -Referring to the report that the poet had a friend of his in mind -when he wrote this poem, and used Rayefsky as a model, he says: "It -seems to me those who believe this report are in error; at least, I -see in 'The Demon' a higher aim, a moral aim. Perhaps the bard wished -to typify Doubt. In life's best period, the heart? not as yet chilled -by experience, is open to everything beautiful. It then is trustful -and tender. But by-and-by the eternal contradictions of reality give -birth to doubt in the heart; this feeling is indeed agonizing, but it -lasts not long.... It disappears, but it carries away with it our best -and poetic prejudices of the spirit." [_Are_ they best, if they _are_ -prejudices? _Is_ illusion truly poetic?--I. P.] Not, therefore, in -vain has Goethe the Great given the name the Spirit of Denial to man's -eternal enemy. And Pushkin wished to typify the Spirit of Denial. - - - -REGRET. - -See Introduction, §§ 16, 25. - - - -THE BIRDLET. - -This piece is not found among Pushkin's Lyrical Poems. It is a song -taken from a longer Narrative Poem, called "The Gypsies." - - - -LOVE. - -This poem is Pushkin all over. In four lines he has given a whole -drama with a world of pathos and tenderness in it. These four lines -give more instruction in the art of story-telling than volumes on the -"Art of Fiction." A magazine writer, who of the same incidents would -have woven out some twenty pages (of which no fewer than nineteen and -three-quarters would have been writ for the approval of check-book -critic, rather than of the art critic), would have really _told_ less -than Pushkin has here told,--so true is the preacher's criticism on his -own sermon: "Madame, if it had been shorter by half, it would have been -twice as long!" - - - -JEALOUSY. - -Of this piece I have already spoken in the Preface, § 7. - - - -IN AN ALBUM. - -This is an excellent example of Pushkin's _sentiment_, of which I spoke -in the Introduction, Chapter III. It is all the more entitled to the -consideration of Anglo-Saxon _a priori_ sentiment-haters (it is so easy -to keep to _a priori_ judgments, they are so convenient; they save -discussion!) because Pushkin wrote this piece when fully matured, at -the age of thirty, when his severe classic taste was already formed. - - - -FIRST LOVE. - -These lines are taken from the Narrative Poem, "The Prisoner of the -Caucasus." - - - -SIGNS. - -Of the more-than-Egyptian number of plagues with which poor Pushkin's -soul was afflicted, superstition was one. He believed in signs, and -sometimes gave up a journey when a hare ran across his road. Owing -to this superstition he once gave up a trip to St. Petersburg, which -probably would have cost him his life, had he made it. For on hearing -of the December rebellion, in which many of his friends took part, he -started for the capital, but the hare.... - - - -ELEGY. - -The fourth volume of Pushkin's Works, in which this poem was first -published, struck Byelinsky with the poverty of its contents. "But in -the fourth volume of Pushkin's Poems," says he, "there is one precious -pearl which reminds us of the song of yore, of the bard of yore. It is -the elegy, 'The extinguished joy of crazy years.' Yes! such an elegy -can redeem not only a few tales, but even the entire volume of poetry!" -... (Byelinsky's Works, ii. 194.) - - - -LOVE AND FREEDOM. - -In the original this poem is called, "To Countess N. V. Kotshubey." - - - -INSPIRING LOVE. - -In the original this piece is headed, "To A. P. Kern." - - - -THE GRACES. - -Addressed to Princess S. A. Urussov. - - - -TO THE POET. - -This is the only poem Turgenef quotes in his speech at the unveiling of -the Pushkin monument in 1880. "Of course," he said, "you all know it, -but I cannot withstand the temptation to adorn my slim, meagre prosy -speech with this poetic gold." - - - -THE TASK. - -Byelinsky, who has taught me to appreciate much in Pushkin which I -otherwise would not have appreciated, speaks of this little piece as -"especially excellent" among Pushkin's anthological poems, written -in hexameter, and says, that a breath antique blows from them. Well, -I cannot agree with Byelinsky. There is, doubtless, a _sentimentlet_ -in the piece,--a germ; but it is only a germ, incomplete, immature. I -would not have translated it (since its beauty, whatever that be, it -owes entirely to its form, which is untranslatable), but for the sake -of the reader, in justice to whom, a poem so highly thought of by -Byelinsky ought to be given, whatever my opinion of it. - - - -QUESTIONINGS. - -In the original this piece is headed, "26 May, 1828." - - - -FAME. - -The first cantos of Eugene Onyegin were issued with the "Dialogue -between the Bookseller and the Poet" as a preface. This poem is one of -the arguments of the poet in the dialogue; and, as it is an independent -song in itself, I have not hesitated to treat it as such. - - - -HOME-SICKNESS. - -In the original these lines are entitled, "To P. A. Ossipova." - - - -DEATH-THOUGHTS. - -In the original this poem is headed, "Stanzas." - - - -RIGHTS. - -In the original this is called, "From VI. Pindemonte." But this is -an original piece by Pushkin; at first he called it, "From Alfred -Musset." Evidently the censorship was likely to pass it as a work of a -foreign author where it would not as one of Pushkin; to his political -convictions Pushkin never, indeed, did dare to give free expression. He -never deliberately misled the government, but he did at times lead it -to believe more in his loyalty than was strictly in accordance with the -facts. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Alexander Pushkin - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** - -***** This file should be named 54991-8.txt or 54991-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/9/9/54991/ - -Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at Free Literature (online soon -in an extended version, also linking to free sources for -education worldwide ... 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