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diff --git a/79276-0.txt b/79276-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bc97274 --- /dev/null +++ b/79276-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,20486 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79276 *** + + + + + ANTHOLOGY OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE + + ────────────── + + From the Earliest Period to the Present Time + + BY + + LEO WIENER + + ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF SLAVIC LANGUAGES AT HARVARD UNIVERSITY + + + IN TWO PARTS + + + 8^o with Photogravure Frontispieces + + + PART I.--From the Tenth Century to the Close of the Eighteenth Century + + PART II.--The Nineteenth Century + + ────────────── + + G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS + + NEW YORK LONDON + + [Illustration: TURGÉNEV] + + + IVÁN SERGYEEVICH TURGÉNEV + +“In days of doubt, in days of anguished thought over the fate of my +native land, you alone are my staff and my support, O great, mighty, +true and free Russian language! Were it not for you how could one help +despairing at the sight of what is taking place at home? But it is +unthinkable that such a language should not be given to a great nation.” + + TURGÉNEV. + + + + + Anthology of Russian Literature + + From the Earliest Period to the Present Time + + + By + + Leo Wiener + + Assistant Professor of Slavic Languages at Harvard University + + + IN TWO PARTS + + + PART II + + The Nineteenth Century + + + G. P. Putnam’s Sons + New York and London + The Knickerbocker Press + 1903 + + + + + PREFACE + + + +Considerations of space compel me to give but a small selection of +authors from the last two decades of the nineteenth century, while some +of the writers, here omitted, of the beginning of this period have been +previously treated in the first volume of the Anthology. For the +intermediate time, the material here offered will be found sufficiently +complete, while the essays of Byelínski, Dobrolyúbov, Písarev, and +Merezhkóvski illustrate the evolution of Russian literature in the +nineteenth century, as viewed by the Russian critics themselves. + +The introductory sketch is not intended as a preliminary exposition of +the Anthology, but as a résumé of all the matter contained there; it +will, therefore, be best perused after the extracts and biographical +sketches of the separate authors have become familiar to the reader. To +avoid undue annotations, literary allusions have not been mentioned in +the footnotes; they may readily be discovered by turning to the Index, +where all cross references are given. + +During the preparation of the second volume, the interesting discovery +was made that not Sir John Bowring, but William D. Lewis, an American, +was the first to render Russian poetry into English; thus, the _Stanzas_ +given on p. 394 of vol. i. originally appeared in the National Gazette +and Literary Register of Philadelphia, on January 31, 1821, while other +poems seem to have been translated by him much earlier. + +I again wish to express my thanks to the authors and publishers by whose +permission translations are here reproduced, and to my colleague, Prof. +F. N. Robinson, who has patiently read through these pages and given me +his advice. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + PREFACE v + A SKETCH OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 3 + THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 27 + Karamzín (1766-1826) 27 + Letters of a Russian Traveller 28 + Tver 28 + On the French Tragedy 30 + On Shakspere 31 + London 32 + The Churchyard 33 + Poor Líza 34 + History of the Russian Empire. Introduction 37 + Krylóv (1768-1844) 41 + The Ass and the Nightingale 41 + The Quartette 43 + Damian’s Fishsoup 44 + The Swan, the Pike, and the Crab 45 + The Lion and the Wolf 45 + The Cloud 46 + The Shipwrecked Sailor and the Sea 46 + Izmáylov (1779-1831) 46 + The Drunkard’s Vow 47 + The Canary and the Nightingale 47 + The Two Cats 48 + Naryézhny (1780-1825) 49 + The Two Iváns; or, The Passion for Litigation 49 + Zhukóvski (1783-1852) 54 + Svyetlána 55 + The Minstrel in the Russian Camp 63 + Kozlóv (1779-1840) 67 + Solitude 68 + Kíev 69 + The Black Monk 70 + Bátyushkov (1787-1855) 73 + The Friend’s Shadow 73 + The Dying Tasso 75 + Glínka (1788-1880) 78 + Moscow 79 + The Search for God 80 + Prince Vyázemski (1792-1878) 81 + The Samovár 82 + To My Three Absent Friends 84 + Death Reaps the Harvest of Life 85 + Rylyéev (1796-1826) 86 + Voynaróvski 87 + Iván Susánin 88 + Griboyédov (1795-1829) 92 + Intelligence Comes to Grief 93 + Bestúzhev (Marlínski) (1797-1837) 102 + Ammalát Bek 102 + Lazhéchnikov (1794-1869) 111 + The Heretic 112 + Baron Délvig (1798-1831) 120 + Gloomy Thoughts 120 + Sang a little bird, and sang 121 + Ah, you night, you little night 122 + Púshkin (1799-1837) 122 + The Captain’s Daughter 125 + Evgéni Onyégin. Tatyána’s Letter 131 + The Bakhchisaráy Fountain 133 + The Poison-Tree 135 + The Bird 136 + The Prophet 137 + The Talisman 138 + The Lay of the Wise Olég 139 + To the Slanderers of Russia 142 + Borís Godunóv 143 + Demons 147 + Baratýnski (1800-1844) 149 + Finland 150 + Spring 151 + Truth 151 + Yazýkov (1803-1846) 152 + The Sailor 153 + The Storm 154 + To the Poet 155 + Lérmontov (1814-1841) 155 + A Hero of Our Times. Maksím Maksímych 157 + The Demon 165 + Dispute 167 + Alone I wander out along the road 170 + The Sail 171 + The Prayer 171 + The Branch of Palestine 172 + Remember’st thou the day when we 173 + At a Ball 174 + Dream 175 + Koltsóv (1808-1842) 176 + First Love 176 + The Abundant Harvest 177 + The Forest 179 + Betrayed by a Bride 181 + The Mower 182 + Gógol (1809-1852) 185 + The Dnieper 187 + The Revizór 188 + Dead Souls. Mrs. Koróbochka 199 + Byelínski (1811-1848) 205 + The Natural School 206 + Aksákov (1791-1859) 216 + The Family Chronicle 217 + Khomyakóv (1804-1860) 229 + To My Children 230 + The Eagle 231 + Kíev 232 + Tyútchev (1803-1873) 234 + Scarce cooled from midday heat 234 + The Spring-Storm 235 + I suffer still from anguished longing 235 + Sunrise 235 + Gértsen (Herzen) (1812-1870) 236 + Slavophiles and Panslavism 237 + Ogarév (1813-1877) 242 + To Iskánder 242 + Monologues 244 + The Village Watchman 244 + Count A. K. Tolstóy (1817-1875) 245 + Prince Serébryany 246 + The Death of Iván the Terrible 255 + The Kurgán 257 + Goncharóv (1812-1891) 259 + Oblómov 260 + Dobrolyúbov (1836-1861) 271 + What is Oblómovism? 272 + Turgénev (1818-1883) 280 + Fathers and Sons 282 + Poems in Prose. Nature 295 + Grigoróvich (1822-1900) 296 + The Fishermen 297 + Polónski (1820-1898) 303 + The Birds 303 + Night in the Crimea 304 + Love scared thee not 305 + Musician Grasshopper 305 + Písemski (1820-1881) 310 + The Old Proprietress 311 + Shenshín (Fet) (1820-1892) 319 + When deeply musing in the silence of the night 320 + Every feeling at night to me becomes clearer and deeper 320 + Stay here awhile, ’tis good 321 + Night, thou art so blest with odours sweet and strong 321 + Tryst 322 + Dostoévski (1821-1881) 322 + Crime and Punishment 323 + A. N. Máykov (1821-1898) 339 + The Peris 340 + Who Was He? 341 + The Marble Faun 342 + Three Deaths. The Death of Seneca and of Lucius 344 + Nekrásov (1821-1877) 347 + Red-nosed Frost 348 + A Moral Man 352 + Who Lives in Russia Happily 353 + The Unmown Strip 359 + A Mother’s Tears 360 + Nikítin (1824-1861) 361 + Burlák 361 + The Gaffer 364 + Pleshchéev (1825-1894) 365 + Forward 366 + My Country 367 + A Legend 367 + Spring 368 + Ostróvski (1823-1886) 369 + The Storm 369 + Saltykóv (Shchedrín) (1826-1889) 379 + Beyond the Border 380 + Písarev (1841-1868) 385 + Flowers of Harmless Humour 386 + Count L. N. Tolstóy (1828- ) 391 + Ánna Karénin 392 + War and Peace 401 + Uspénski (1840-1902) 408 + The Power of the Land. Iván Petróv 409 + Levítov (1842-1877) 417 + Shoemaker Cock-of-the-Boots 417 + Zlatovrátski (1845- ) 427 + Old Shadows 428 + Korolénko (1853- ) 436 + The Old Bell-ringer 437 + Garshín (1855-1888) 443 + That Which Was Not 443 + Potápenko (1856- ) 448 + A Thousand Talents 448 + Nádson (1862-1887) 457 + My Friend, My Brother! 458 + Poetry 458 + Pity the stately cypress trees 459 + Chékhov (1860- ) 459 + In the Court-room 460 + Pyeshkóv (Górki) (1871- ) 467 + In the Steppe 468 + Merezhkóvski (1865- ) 482 + From an Essay on “Pushkin” 483 + INDEX 495 + + + + + A SKETCH OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE IN THE + NINETEENTH CENTURY + + + + I + +Were we to compare English literature to the starred heavens with their +galaxies and their permanent constellations of varying magnitudes, +Russian literature would represent itself to us as the darkling sky +which is now illumined by the refracted glamour of the aurora borealis, +now by the illusive flashes of shooting meteors, and now again by the +steadier brilliancy of some errant comet, by the side of which stars +seem pale and insignificant. In England, as with the other great nations +of the West, there have been temporary suspensions of literary +activities, but with every new unshrouding the ancient combinations +gleam forth in the azure vault in untarnished brilliancy, even though +new stars may obtrude themselves to view. Not thus in Russia. After +every short period of celestial fireworks the heavens are suddenly +merged into palpable darkness, to dazzle us once more with an entirely +new display of unwonted splendour. + +Such, at least, is the aspect Russian literature bears in the nineteenth +century. Though Púshkin’s poetry was naturally the crowning glory of the +incipient reign of Nicholas I., it bears but a faint resemblance to the +lacrimose verses of Karamzín, or to the elegant imitations and patriotic +ebullitions of Zhukóvski of the previous two decades, and yet Karamzín +lived till Púshkin reached man’s estate, while Zhukóvski was still +active after his death. Púshkin and his contemporaries are classed +separately from Lérmontov, though but fifteen years lie between their +births and only four between their deaths. No new division is made for +poetry since the days of Lérmontov, though in the light of Nekrásov’s +realism, who began writing in 1848, the poets of pure art, Máykov, +Polónski, Tyútchev, Fet,--all of them born long before Púshkin’s +demise,--were reviled by the democratic critics and suffered more or +less complete oblivion after the fifties. Still more pathetic is the +fate of Vyázemski who, reared in the school of Karamzín, had the +misfortune of surviving to a vigorous old age: he bitterly felt the +living literary death to which he was doomed for more than a quarter of +a century. + +The vicissitudes of prose have been even more varied. Karamzín had +barely established the new style of writing, based on French and English +writers, still struggling with the reactionary tendency of Shishkóv, +whose antiquated style is prominent in Griboyédov’s comedy, when a whole +school of Romanticists, beginning with Bestúzhev-Marlínski and +Lazhéchnikov, and ending with Púshkin and Lérmontov, evolved, under the +influence of Walter Scott, the Russian novel. It is a far cry from +Karamzín’s _Líza_ to Púshkin’s _Captain’s Daughter_ and to Lérmontov’s +_Hero of Our Time_. Yet, within less than a decade after the latter had +charmed the public, Gógol’s _Dead Souls_ completely obliterated the fame +of all its predecessors, and Byelínski’s dictum in regard to the Natural +School at once set the pace for an entirely new set of writers,--the +novelists of the forties. Turgénev, Goncharóv, Tolstóy, Dostoévski, +Písemski, were trained in that school and wrote their first productions +in the lifetime of Gógol. Yet after the memorial year 1848 a reaction +set in in literature as well as in affairs, and the fifties, except for +rare flashes of genius from Turgénev and Tolstóy, were one barren waste. +Of Gógol’s example and Byelínski’s injunctions hardly a trace was left. +Then, during the reign of Alexander II., the atmosphere was again +cleared, and the sixties produced that wonderful series of writings for +which Russia is mainly known abroad. And yet, in 1862, Turgénev proved +by his _Fathers and Sons_ that he was no longer in touch with Russian +reality; and a few years later, after Tolstóy had written his _War and +Peace_ and _Anna Karénin_, began Tolstóy’s rapid departure from all +reality. + +In the meantime the critics, from the master Byelínski down, through +Dobrolyúbov, Písarev and Chernyshévski, reached the _ne plus ultra_ of +negation, and with them rose a new set of authors, who returned to the +lowest elements of society for their themes,--to the peasants. +Grigoróvich, Pomyalóvski, Uspénski, and a whole host of minor writers, +many of them riotous in the absence of style, produced a vast amount of +literature. Dostoévski, revelling in excruciating psychological +analyses, wrote his best work, _Crime and Punishment_, in 1865. No +wonder, then, that after such a concentrated creative period there +should follow a decade of impotence, in which the only relief was +afforded by the older writers, who occasionally lighted up the darkness +with their phosphorescence. Then, since the eighties, there has been a +November shower of novelists, Korolénko, Potápenko, Chékhov, Boborýkin, +and many, many more, and but lately a new comet has loomed up in the +horizon in the person of Maksím Górki. + +The periods of distinct literary ideals are so short, their activities +so varied, that one feels tempted to treat the nineteenth century by +decades, or, to avoid embarrassing results from a purely mechanical +arrangement, to survey each field of belles-lettres, poetry, drama, +prose, in its evolution from Karamzín to the present. Neither method, +however, is free from serious objections, and it will be found more +convenient to regard the literary movement under each reign, especially +since the Decembrist revolt at the end of the rule of Alexander I., the +Crimean War under Nicholas I., and the death of Alexander II. mark real +epochs in the intellectual movements of Russia. Each reign, in its turn, +is by some historical event divisible into two parts, the first of which +coincides with aspirations and vigorous activities in literature, the +second with relaxation and indifference. Such events were the year 1812 +and, in a higher measure, the year 1848. + +It would, however, be incorrect to identify the various periods with the +political changes of the Empire. Though, naturally, a new impetus may be +given at the beginning of a new reign, or a great national calamity may +rouse the dormant literary powers of the people, yet the accessions to +the throne of the successive rulers, and their policies, do not +sufficiently account for the shortness of each separate period and their +apparently abrupt cessations; just as, on the other hand, the political +changes themselves are frequently only the reflex of the antecedent +literary movement with the pronounced public opinion which is based upon +it. Thus, for example, the emancipation of the serfs, with its +tremendous political and social consequences, was not merely an +arbitrary act of the monarch, but the logical culmination of the +literary propaganda, with Turgénev and his _Memoirs of a Huntsman_ at +its head, which had preceded it. + +Nor can governmental policy and severity of censorship be made +accountable for the short-lived literary influence of each individual +author, for the early maturity of genius, and the wide chasm between the +author’s sunny youth and his old age in the rare instances when he has +lived beyond his forties. At forty years of age, rather earlier than +later, all Russian writers have reached their apogee. Most authors have +gained their reputation long before that, and their old age passes by +unnoticed or in mystic abstractions, and in nearly all cases out of tune +with the realities of the day. And how appallingly large is the number +of those whose career was brought to an untimely end before they had +reached forty, either by violent means, as that of Púshkin and +Lérmontov, or through insanity, as that of Garshín, or through disease, +frequently as the result of dire wretchedness in youth, or of +intemperance, as that of Byelínski, Dobrolyúbov, Písarev, Nikítin, +Nádson, and many others! + +The peculiar conditions of Russian literary life are the result of the +whole social structure of the country. Here we shall find an answer to +the many perplexing questions that the foreigner must necessarily put to +himself as he contemplates, not only the peculiar course of Russian +belles-lettres and their artistic and political maxims, but also the +exaggerated relation that Russian men of letters bear to the political +life of the nation. + +The literate class of the people of Russia is at the present time but a +small part of the total population, and the cultured elements of society +form but a small percentage of all those who can read and write Russian. +The conditions were, naturally, much more unfavourable for education in +the beginning of the nineteenth century. The Western civilisation which +had spread over Russia since the days of Peter the Great had not +penetrated deep: it had not touched the core of things, had not changed +much in the semi-barbaric home life of the gentry and even of the higher +nobility. Below these classes it was practically non-existent. A desire +for learning there was, and the fathers who wished to have their +children benefited by the blessings of an education had either to fall +back on foreign tutors, or to send them to the schools maintained at +Moscow and St. Petersburg. The Lyceum at Tsárskoe-Seló was the chief +seminary of learning for the sons of the nobility. The sons were just as +eager to acquire the lustre of the foreign culture, but they invariably +understood this European learning merely as a counteraction to the +brutal surroundings of old Russia. They brought with them no home +traditions of refinement, no settled political and social views. At +their schools the young men were banded together by common interests of +progress against the world without, and they felt that the future of +Russia depended upon them as an intellectual force. Had the next +generation of students been recruited exclusively from the sons of men +who had enjoyed school advantages before, there would have been a +nucleus for traditional culture. But, in the nature of the case, +ever-new elements were availing themselves of the higher schooling, and +the younger generation was as much torn out of its barren surroundings +as the young men at the beginning of the century. They, too, were the +chosen few, and upon them, they knew, devolved the task of regenerating +their country. Unfortunately they lacked not only traditions of culture +in their families, but the school had not been able to transmit any +other positive tradition than the general desire for mental training and +literary brilliancy. The ethical principle of culture was but weakly +developed, and the absence of stated maxims of life made philosophic +moderation impossible. If the older generation had been carried away by +the prevailing French taste, or by Byron’s enticing poetry, or by the +powerful Romanticism of Germany, without, however, grasping the +underlying philosophy of either, or making it its own, the youths of the +thirties sat at the feet of the German philosophers, and with the +enthusiasm of new converts transferred their tenets into their whole +view of life and letters, however, by first eliminating from it the +essence of methodical thinking, which alone would have assured any +permanency to the Russian ecstasy. + +Since culture was confined chiefly to the higher classes of society, +there was slowly growing up a select circle of cultivated men who, while +not characterised by the stability of the German intellectual class or +the dignified refinement of the English aristocracy, atoned for the +superficiality of their learning by a superabundance of youthful +enthusiasm. But, before the gentry had any time to crystallise into an +intellectual class, the doors of schools were thrown open to the nation +at large, and the middle classes began at once to avail themselves of +the privilege. There was a new influx of men without a tradition, and +the work of intellectualising had to be begun once more. The vigorous +burghers had not the wealth and position of their noble predecessors to +distract their spiritual energies, and to them the pursuit of learning +was a very serious matter. But their efforts were often thwarted by a +struggle against all kinds of adversities, and they frequently succumbed +in body and mind to the effects of poverty and persecution. If the sons +of the gentry in the previous generations stood out as a protest against +their fathers, the young men now added to it a protest against the +higher classes, and, as is natural in a state of chronic protests, they +rapidly reached the negation of everything. Russian literature passes +all the stages of negation, from the criticisms of Chátski in +Griboyédov’s comedy to the conscious superiority of Bazárov in +Turgénev’s _Fathers and Sons_, and from the critiques of Byelínski to +the negation of art and literature in the acrid solvent of Písarev’s +reviews and in the latter-day literary productions of the master-artist +Tolstóy. + +The salutary effects of the renewal of the intellectual classes with +every generation have been in the extreme democratisation of Russian +society, and in the frequent and varied evolution of talent,--artistic, +musical, literary, political. But the democracy, lacking the moderation +of established procedure, too often loses itself in mazes of inactive +speculation, and, lacking historic perspective and philosophic +precision, is vacillating in its ultimate ends; while the same causes +militate against a concentration of talent, and rather disperse its +strength and nullify its effects. Hence the apt classification of the +heroes of Russian novels as so many Oblómovs, which Dobrolyúbov has made +in his review of Goncharóv’s famous work. It is, indeed, a notable fact +that Russia has not produced a single philosopher worthy of the name, +and a late attempt at discovering _The Philosophic Tendencies in Russian +Poetry_ has resulted in a meagre work which, though interesting for the +poets it harbours, is conspicuous for the absence of that philosophy +which it sets out to find. + +Philosophy can have free sway only where there is calm reflection; and +reflection lies at the base of actions only where ideals of life are +formed at a mature age. Unfortunately for Russia, young men have stood +behind the cultural movements, and by “young men” are in Russia +understood those who have not yet reached the age of thirty. In the +Anglo-American civilisation men between thirty and fifty are supposed to +be young men, men of action, which view, having its origin in the +conservative spirit of Anglo-Saxon institutions, more than anything else +assures a cautious progress. In Russia, we have seen, the task of +fostering progress has fallen on school-lads and university students. +The consequence has been disastrous. Russian youths have tried to carry +high the banner of progress, and one cannot help but admire the courage +with which they have upheld their cause, the enthusiasm with which they +have advocated their tenets, the sacrifices which they have ever been +ready to bring. At the same time it must be evident that their courage +has frequently been ill-advised, their enthusiasm brittle because not +tempered by chill experience, and their sacrifices vain and useless. +There has been no bond of sympathy between the sons and their fathers, +and the enthusiasm of one generation has not been bequeathed in its turn +to the next. + +As long as effervescent youth has lasted, Russians have not hesitated to +throw their whole souls into their cause. In Púshkin’s days they +surpassed Byron in the recklessness of their youthful excesses, and +would-be Manfreds could be met with in the flesh. As Slavophiles they +were willing to forego the fruits of Western civilisation, and gloried +in their unwieldy native costume. As Soilers and Populists they +renounced the society of their likes, and buried themselves in the +deadening wildernesses of distant villages. Even if the Government had +not nipped their efforts by exile and prisons, their fate could not +later in life have been happy. When their first fervour had evaporated, +and they were brought face to face with actualities, the discrepancy +between theories and practices of necessity produced a revulsion. The +stout of heart maintained their cherished hopes, but their minds became +variously affected by quiet sorrow, melancholy, despair. The men of +coarser texture turned liberal opportunists, temporisers, or downright +deniers of all their previous thoughts and acts. The Government absorbed +these as officials in various capacities, and thus the better elements, +through their abhorrence of compromise, have generally been lost to the +State. + +The same disenchantment is noticeable in the life of every man of +letters. Literature has been in Russia the field in which all the +battles of progress have been fought. As there does not exist a +representative government, where political opinions may struggle for +recognition, and as there cannot exist a public opinion based on +tradition and class interests, literature alone appears as the medium +for advancing social and political ideas; and since scientific treatises +reach but a vanishing proportion of the nation, belles-lettres proper +have in Russia become the means for inculcating and propagating truths. +In the beginning of the nineteenth century this was not yet so apparent, +and literature for art’s sake could hold its own. But with the advancing +democratisation of society, literature gathered ever more around camps +with definite ideas, and literary art receded more and more and lived +out its day in oblivion. The individual authors have always been +conscious of their high calling, and in their youth have devoted +themselves with fervour to their tasks; but in middle life they +generally have been chilled by the actual conditions of life, and have +fallen a prey to disappointment, the effects of which were mysticism, +renunciation, opportunism, as the case might be. + +Thus, also, there has followed a period of comparative stagnation and +even retrogression after every decade of concentrated production. The +men whom common interests had brought together in literary emulation had +passed their perihelion, and another generation had not yet reached +maturity; and in the interim the discordant notes could be heard more +clearly. In the last twenty years, however, a marked change has taken +place in Russian literature. While there has not risen an author of the +first magnitude, there has been no lack of writers and poets of the +second rank, and the reactionary element has been well kept in abeyance. +Russian critics stigmatise this period as one of mediocrity, and despair +of the future, since never before has there been so long a time without +some author of strong personality and influence. In reality, the +symptoms are very encouraging. It is evident from the long duration of +the smouldering literary life that society is becoming more stable, even +though temporarily less deep, and that literary sentiment and culture is +gaining in breadth. The next outburst of literary activities will +unquestionably be greater than any that have preceded it. + + + II + +The gloom which had spread over literature at the end of Catherine’s +reign was lifted at the very opening of the nineteenth century by the +accession of the liberal Alexander I. Instead of continuing the +persecution of the Free Masons and suppressing literature, the Emperor +himself favoured all kinds of mystic societies, and carried his +liberalism to the greatest extreme. He associated with Quakers, and +Jesuits were left unmolested in the capital. He proposed to reorganise +the country on Western models, and did not think it unwise to ask Thomas +Jefferson for a sketch of the American Constitution. He surrounded +himself with men of pronounced progressive tendencies, and heaped +honours on the author of the _Journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow_, +whose advanced ideas had so displeased Catherine. + +Yet only the end of his reign saw the fruition of the new spirit in +literature, when Púshkin with his mighty genius for ever settled the +direction Russian letters were to take. There could have been no sudden +change. No new ideals had taken the place of the literary traditions of +the eighteenth century, which looked upon authorship as a pleasant +pastime and profitable exercise of wit, but did not invest the authors +with the dignity of social factors. Though Romanticism was rapidly +displacing the older pseudo-classicism, many authors of the former style +were still active among the changing surroundings. Ózerov produced his +thunderous dramas and found a ready audience, and Derzhávin not only +continued his writing of odes, but was able to maintain a coterie of +literary men who would not listen to the innovations of Karamzín. + +The most persistent stickler for the old conventions was Shishkóv. He +had no ear for the subtler beauties of verse, and identified poetry with +high-sounding epithets and well-turned phrases. His admiration for the +older bards led him to seek in their language, with the strange +admixture of Church-Slavic words, the proper norm for all time, and to +abhor the introduction of foreign words, which Karamzín so dexterously +applied in his formation of a new literary style. As President of the +Russian Academy Shishkóv exercised a certain influence, and the +discussion of the two styles agitated society for some time. There was +just a spark of truth in his contention. Like Shcherbátov before him, +and the Slavophiles thirty years later, he was anxious to see a greater +approach to the national spirit. Like his predecessor, he did not fail +to recognise that the colourless imitation of foreign models was not +bringing literature any nearer to the people, and, like the older +historian, he receded as far as possible into the past in his search for +native elements. Writers were at that time not yet prepared to look for +a common bond with the people in a living intercourse with them. + +In the meanwhile Karamzín proceeded to find his models for composition +in the West, and to base his literary style on a close imitation of +French and English writers. He freely introduced such words and turns as +would mould Russian into a simpler and more harmonious instrument. His +example has been followed ever since. He was led by personal +predilection and a natural pensiveness to father that sentimentalism +which had found such a ready soil in Europe. How unnatural for Russian +that sentimentalism was, may be seen in the gentle transformation the +peasants have suffered in his novels. But in his day no one took +exception to such a treatment, and many affected that exotic sentiment +themselves. + +In general, the particular direction of any author was very much a +matter of chance. Not the necessities of the time, not the spiritual +needs of any class of society decided what the poet was to sing and the +novelist was to write about,--indeed, society had not yet risen to a +well-defined spiritual life,--but the temporary whim of the author, the +accidental acquaintance with this or that manifestation in the foreign +literatures were the only reasons for transplanting the foreign models +upon Russian soil. The adroitness with which extraneous themes have been +handled by many of the writers is truly remarkable. In Bátyushkov it +reached masterly perfection. Having tried himself in imitations of +German, French, and classical models, his interest finally centred on +the Italian poets, especially Tasso. The result of his especial +predilection was that faultless poem, _The Dying Tasso_, which combines +epic calm and majesty of language as probably no other production in +Russian literature. But he had no contemporary audience that could +follow him in his exquisite interpretation of the Italian classical +spirit, just as Gnyédich, the famous translator of the Iliad, felt +aggrieved at the indifference with which society met his great +undertaking. + +While a select number of authors, separating themselves from the life +that surrounded them, found inspiration in the distant past, Zhukóvski +devoted himself to familiarising his nation with the productions of the +German Romantic Muse. But, while in Europe Romanticism was the logical +outcome of the period of storm and stress through which it had just +passed, it bore no relation to actual spiritual needs in Russia. +Consequently only the external form and the technique, and not the inner +meaning was transplanted by Zhukóvski to his native soil. It is true, he +all the time preached a high ideal for poetry, but that ideal was only +superficially related to the fashionable Romantic verse in which he +enunciated it. + +More original than these was Krylóv who, basing his fables on those of +La Fontaine, clad them in an idiomatic form and adorned them with an art +peculiarly his own. It would be, however, a mistake to suppose that he, +at least, fell back on the native element for his subjects. There is +absolutely nothing Russian in his fables. Not only do the popular animal +stories differ widely from those employed by him for illustration, but +he did not hesitate to introduce classical allusions whenever a chance +offered itself. The same method, though in a coarser vein, was also +pursued by Izmáylov. + +The year 1812 had its immediate effects upon literature. It gave rise to +patriotic songs, like Zhukóvski’s _In the Camp of Russian Warriors_, and +to the patriotic series by Rylyéev. It led to a closer study of Russian +history, and Karamzín’s monumental work could not have come at a more +auspicious period. The consequences were even greater. Many young +officers who had formed their ideals of life through the imitations of +their native literature took part in the campaign in Germany and France, +and there came in contact with all the living movements that agitated +the best minds. They brought home with them a new enthusiasm, formed +secret societies in imitation of the German _Tugendbund_, and dreamed of +a violent reorganisation of Russia. All the best young forces were +directly or indirectly affected by the new ideal. In the meanwhile the +Government entered into its phase of reaction, and obscurantism became +rampant. University professors were watched by the secret police, and +instruction was carried on under great difficulties. The slightest +expression of independence or freedom led to banishment and +imprisonment. The strained relations between the youthful idealists and +the reactionaries culminated in the unfortunate and impossible +Decembrist conspiracy in 1825, when Rylyéev, among others, paid the +penalty of death for his rashness. + +But the accumulated literary force could no longer be dispersed. A +galaxy of poets had with wonderful skill reproduced every imaginable +aspect of European verse, even though they did not enter into a full +understanding of the meaning and duty of their art. The language had +been polished by Karamzín and his followers to its utmost extent and was +now capable of every literary form. It only needed a subtle genius to +breathe a soul into that fair body. That genius was Púshkin. + + + III + +A period rich in literary experience and new modes of expression does +not necessarily presage the coming of a genius who will unify the +unrelated modes into a symmetric, intrinsically artistic whole. But, +given an ardent poetic soul and a time when the minds of men are +agitated by high aspirations and hopes, the opportunity is favourable +for that soul to become the focus of all the tendencies of the day, and +to reflect the accumulated force as one bright light for long years to +come. The conditions could not have been more auspicious for giving +direction and meaning to Púshkin’s genius. Not only Derzhávin, Karamzín, +Dmítriev, Zhukóvski, Bátyushkov, and Krylóv furnished him in his youth +with varied poetical productions for his imitation, but a large number +of minor poets, trained in the traditions of the eighteenth century, +Merzlyakóv, Neledínski-Melétski, Dolgorúki, were still active during the +formative time of his genius. And not only the external forms of verse +had been carried to a high perfection in his schooldays. The liberalism +of the Government in the beginning of Alexander’s reign, the stirring +patriotism of the nation consequent upon the events of the year 1812, +the crass obscurantism and reaction from above, and the secret +organisations of the youthful idealists which soon after superseded the +open progress of the previous decade,--all that combined to inspire the +younger generation of poets with the seriousness and dignity of their +mission. + +In his evolution Púshkin passed through several stages. In _Ruslán and +Lyudmíla_, which he wrote in 1820, the year of his first exile, he +attempted to treat a popular subject in the Romantic style, but there is +little of a native element in it. During his banishment to the south he +came under the influence of Byron, and began his _Evgéni Onyégin_, the +first real Russian novel. In _Borís Godunóv_ he came under the spell of +Shakspere. + +In the beginning of the new reign, Púshkin’s genius was clearly defined +and, departing from the Byronism of his former productions, became +completely original. At the same time he renounced the easy liberalism +of his younger days, and placed himself in the service of the Tsar. +Since he withdrew from the communion with the masses and preached an +aristocratism in letters as well as life, his real importance in Russian +literature has been obscured by the more democratic Gógol. The doctrine +which he taught, that art is to be exercised for art’s sake and not +polluted by contact with the vulgar, found no ready response in the +troubled years of the second half of the century. Only now, when the +battle for the masses has been fought, and literature is beginning to +lose its didactic and political value, there is to be noticed a growing +tendency to turn back to Púshkin as the fountainhead of Russian poetry. +This just renewal of the cult of Púshkin has already had the marked +effect of rediscovering and bringing to public notice the excellent +creations of the poets of his school, Tyútchev, Fet, Máykov, Polónski, +and others, and of stimulating the youngest generation of poets, whose +names are just beginning to be heard, to higher efforts. + +Many contemporary poets were inspired by the master. Délvig, Rylyéev, +Baratýnski, Venevítinov, Yazýkov came under his influence, but they were +not able to follow him in his eagle flight, and stopped at the earlier +stages of his development. There were others who showed more +individuality, or even opened up new avenues in literature. Griboyédov’s +_Intelligence Comes to Grief_ stood out as the most remarkable drama +that had till then appeared in Russia, as it had seized with great +clearness the contradictory and indefinite tendencies of society, and +indicated the coming conflict between Westerners and Slavophiles. But +the indefinite tendencies of the time were reflected with far greater +power in Lérmontov. + +Lérmontov’s _Hero of Our Time_ is, to a certain extent, an +autobiography. It is of the same spiritual family as _Evgéni Onyégin_, +but the greater indefiniteness and disenchantment of its hero supply a +true portrayal of the men of the thirties who had not yet come to have +any well-defined aims in life. Men were dissatisfied with the past, saw +all the misery and wretchedness that surrounded them, and wished for +something better to come, but did not have the energy to rise above +their surroundings and so lost themselves in contradictions and Byronic +despair. The same subjective tone runs through all his shorter poems and +through _The Demon_, that most precious flower of the whole Romantic +school. Such is the sweetness of his verse and the wealth of his imagery +that he is preferred by many foreign readers even to Púshkin. + +More original than Lérmontov was his contemporary Koltsóv. His +middle-class surroundings had brought him in much closer contact with +the people than Púshkin, and his neglected early education operated in +favour of his poetic genius inasmuch as it kept him free from any +traditional associations. When his talent became apparent to him, he for +a short time tried his strength in the customary rhymed verses, +especially of the type of Púshkin, whom he greatly admired and +understood as few poets after him have done. But soon his native feeling +asserted itself, and he began to draw his inspiration from popular +songs. A number of poets before him, especially Délvig, had attempted +this kind of composition, but none of them had even distantly brought to +bear the same talent upon it as Koltsóv, and none after him have +equalled him. + +While Romanticism was scoring its greatest successes, and a +novel-reading public was going into ecstasies over the impassioned +stories of Bestúzhev-Marlínski, Gógol evolved his series of naturalistic +stories, rising by pyramidal steps to his immortal _Dead Souls_, which +appeared in the very year that Lérmontov and Koltsóv died. A new chord +was struck,--one that reverberates even now through all Russian +literature. The foundation was placed for a Russian school of +belles-lettres, the first in its annals. All the peculiarities of +Russian literature for all time to follow are the direct outcome of the +tradition which begins with Gógol. His appearance, though startling and +unexpected, was not unprepared. There has always been a strong element +of sound naturalism in the Russian character. It shows frequently +through the Byzantine shroud in the earliest times; it refreshes us in +many a simple folktale; it is a pre-eminent characteristic of the +thoughts and acts of Peter the Great; it craves expression in the exotic +pseudo-classic rhetoric of the eighteenth century; it comes to the +surface in Púshkin’s best productions. Gógol had even a direct +predecessor in the manner of his stories in the person of Naryézhny who, +being born in the same locality with him, had fallen back on the same +rich narrative material of his native Little-Russia. + +But in Gógol this naturalism was for the first time clearly expressed +and completely freed from all foreign contamination. Not at once, +however. He made his début with a Romantic idyl, and all his earlier +productions are still tinged with the current mannerism. Only in 1836 +appeared his _Cloak_, the prototype of all later Russian novels. He was +not at once accepted by the public, so daring were his innovations, so +disenchanting his realism, so appalling the wretchedness of Russia which +he laid bare. He did not himself proceed consciously upon the new path, +but by the inspiration of his genius. Later in life, therefore, when a +reaction set in in his thoughts, he deeply regretted his earlier +activity. But there was no retracing his steps. The critic Byelínski had +subjected him to literary analysis, and had pronounced him the father of +the new school. It seemed to him as if there had not even existed a +literature before Gógol, and all previous writers henceforth barely eked +out an anthology existence. + +The conscious tendency towards realism in Russia was due to another +fact. The predilection for the encyclopedic knowledge of France and its +literature had come to an end in the thirties. Young men had become +acquainted in Germany with the philosophy of Schelling and Hegel, and +the circles of Moscow were ever more familiarising themselves with the +more serious aspects of German science. Those who were not forgetful of +their obligations to Europe gathered around Byelínski in their advocacy +of a greater approach to Western ideals. Others, again, inspired by the +conceptions of _nation_, _national spirit_, _national destiny_, which +the German philosophers had evolved, were led to seclude themselves from +all foreign influence by advocating the narrow tenets of Slavophilism. +The Slavophiles have not produced one great author, for Khomyakóv is +better known for his theological writings than for his poetry, and +Aksákov, who had received his training before the thirties, wrote his +_Family Chronicle_ in his old age, evidently under the influence of +Gógol. All the great writers who are honoured abroad, Turgénev, Tolstóy, +Dostoévski, have issued from the camp of the Westerners, and had +received their impetus in the thirties and early in the forties. + +After the year 1848 a reaction set in in letters, under the influence of +the political gloom that had been cast over Europe, but especially over +Russia. The censorship became more oppressive than ever, and a general +apathy took possession of society. Periodicals ceased to exist, or were +colourless and pedantic. The flimsiest society novels had pushed all the +great literature of the previous decade into the background. The gloom +hung over Russia until the end of the reign of Nicholas I., lighted up +only by the flashes of the great authors who were passing through their +apprenticeship. + + + IV + +Gógol more appropriately ends the old series of authors than begins the +new. His powerful genius raised him above his predecessors, but the +absence of a definite political or social tendency in his works makes +him more akin to the writers of pure art. In the forties, a younger +generation of writers was trained in the philosophical conceptions of +Germany, and the democratic spirit that swept over Europe affected them +in favour of the people. It became incumbent on these authors, not +merely to amuse by their productions, but to teach and propagate +definite social ideals, to become the protagonists in the battle for +human liberties. At the same time the vast abyss which lay between their +theories and the disheartening reality about them, the unmooring from +all the traditions of the past, and the hopelessness of the future +developed in them a strain of scepticism and self-analysis that sooner +or later led to pessimism. + +The oldest of these new authors, Turgénev, who was the first to express +his interest in the people, remained all his life an advocate of a +peaceful progress on the basis of a cautious adoption of Western ideals. +In style he was a realist of a pronounced type, but his genius saved him +from carrying his naturalism to the appalling extent to which the French +novelists have carried it. In 1847 he began to attract attention by his +sketches from peasant life, but in the sixties he depicted the condition +of the intelligent classes as affected by the emancipation of the serfs. +The keynote to the conception of his heroes is struck in an article of +his on _Hamlet and Don Quixote_, in which he expresses the thought that +all people belong to one of these two types, but that in his days there +was a predominance of Hamlets, that is, of such as are prone to analysis +and scepticism. + +Goncharóv, in his _Oblómov_, has given us a type of a passive man who +lacks every initiative, and has generalised in his hero all Russians as +by nature incapable of active progress; but Tolstóy very early began to +carry his analysis to the farthest extent and not only assumed a +negative attitude towards all the questions of the day, but soon reached +the negation of all progress in general, and sought refuge from the +world without in a close communion with the people. He is less careful +about style and artistic perfection of his productions than Turgénev, +but in the portrayal of separate incidents and in analysis of character +he often rises to the highest art. In the second half of his life, but +especially since the eighties, Tolstóy has carried negation to the +impossible point of non-resistance, thus repeating, though not in an +identical form, the experience of Gógol. + +Dostoévski, born and bred in the city under distressing circumstances, +appropriated for himself the analysis of the lower elements of the +population of the towns. His long imprisonment in Siberia acquainted him +with the mental and moral life of the criminals, and his own epileptic +and extremely nervous condition made it possible for him to pry into the +recesses of the diseased and depraved mind. His democratic love for the +subjects he described, and the psychological analysis to which he +submitted them, however startling and unusual they are in his case, are +in keeping with the traditions of the men of the forties. + +No new school, no new tendency, has since supplanted the democratic +school of analysis which these authors had inaugurated nearly half a +century ago. Nearly all authors have taken the _people_ for their motto. +The question has only been to decide what really constitutes the +_people_. Just before and soon after the emancipation the peasants came +in for the largest share of attention. At first their real condition was +not clearly understood, and they were, on the one hand, idealised, and, +on the other, represented as objects worthy of ridicule. In the +meanwhile the Slavophiles, in their attempt to discover the national +spirit, did a great deal to study their customs and their oral +literature. Thus, by degrees, a proper understanding of the real life of +the peasant was possible, and the _novelists of the people_ were able to +treat them with greater objectivity and truth. Among these writers of +one class or other were Danilévski, Ryeshétnikov, Levítov, Glyeb +Uspénski, and Zlatovrátski. + +Others, again, proceeded to busy themselves with the intelligent class, +pre-eminently with the negative sides of their existence. Písemski +painted them in the blackest colours, while Saltykóv applied his great +satirical talents more especially to the disclosure of all the +wretchedness and dishonesty of the middle and the official strata of +society. Ostróvski, again, took for his dramas the Moscow merchant class +which stood on the border of the old Russian civilisation, and treated +it ideally, apologetically, or negatively at various stages of his +development. In poetry the democratic spirit of the forties is best +reflected in Nekrásov and in a much lesser degree in Nikítin. Though +these writers are related to Koltsóv in the treatment of popular themes, +they differ vastly in the application of the democratic motive from +their more artistic predecessor. + +In the seventies there was the usual reaction in literature as well as +in the political life of the nation. Since then a large number of +novelists and poets have been endeavouring to reproduce the currents of +modern society. The background of all this new literature is still the +democracy of the forties, but the centre of interest has shifted from +the peasant and the intellectual class to the large burgher population +in its undefined tendency to form a substantial middle class. There are +no pronounced ideas which these writers feel themselves called to +propagate or defend, hence their task is comparatively more difficult +than that of the previous generation. They are conscious of this, and +when accused of scattering their energies and not rising to the high +points of the men of the forties, they have justly answered that they +are at a loss to discover any positive tendencies in the nation to +reproduce. In the external technique of their works, however, there is a +decided improvement over the generation which has just passed away, and +the works would, no doubt, greatly interest foreign readers if they did +not so much approach well-known models of the West. + +In this greater cosmopolitanism of the newer Russian literature, in the +broadening of the intellectual horizon, even though the literary life is +more shallow, lies the hope of Russia’s future. Life is readjusting +itself on a more stable basis. The tendencies of society, though +indefinite, are more normal. Hence didacticism in literature is rapidly +passing away, and art, this time tempered by the democratic spirit of +the age, bids fair to regain its place in letters. Two illustrations +will suffice to make this clear. Górki, who by his private life and the +influence of the democratic school has been led to descend to the lowest +dregs of society for his subjects, absolutely refrains from inculcating, +directly or indirectly, any social or political tenet. Whatever he +paints, he paints with the consummate skill of the artist for the sake +of art. Merezhkóvski, who has not yet entirely passed his apprenticeship +in letters, is trying to bridge over the democratic epoch, which he +abhors, and aspires for the laurels of Púshkin. + +Compared with its humble beginnings in 1800, Russian literature has made +a wonderful record in the nineteenth century. The Russian language has +been moulded into an instrument of great perfection: it is melodious, +and capable of all shades of expression and all literary forms. The +great authors of its literature have become the possession of all +nations. Intellectual Russia no longer stands aloof. It is an important +and valuable member of the great nations of the world. From the steady +progress in the past, frequently under the most trying opposition, must +be prognosticated a still greater advancement in the future. It has well +learned its lessons from the West: it may yet become its teacher. + + + + + THE NINETEENTH CENTURY + + + + + + Nikoláy Mikháylovich Karamzín. (1766-1826.) + + + Karamzín was born in the Government of Simbírsk. At fourteen years of + age he entered Professor Schaden’s school at Moscow, and later he + attended the university. In 1783 he settled in St. Petersburg where he + began his literary career in conjunction with his friend Dmítriev (see + vol. i., p. 428 _et seq._); he entered the army for a short time, and + spent the next year in his native place. After that he was taken to + Moscow by I. P. Turgénev, a friend of Nóvikov (see vol. i., pp. 32 and + 327), and was brought by him under the educational influences of the + Masonic Society, which, however, he never joined himself. He devoted + himself to the study of the German language, from which he translated + much, and acquainted himself with English literature. In 1789 he + travelled extensively through Germany, Switzerland, France, and + England, meeting wherever possible the famous men of letters. Upon his + return he edited, among other periodicals, the _Moscow Journal_, in + which had appeared his _Letters of a Russian Traveller_. These differ + immensely in tone and literary execution from the similar compositions + by Fon-Vízin (see vol. i., p. 355 _et seq._), and indicate the great + stride made in the intellectual advancement of Russia in the short + period of one decade. They created a sensation, not only on account of + the pleasing and novel manner in which he treated serious subjects, + but in a greater measure on account of the strong element of + sentimental optimism that pervaded them. His sentimentalism is even + more pronounced in his poems, and in his novels _Poor Líza_, _Natálya, + the Boyár’s Daughter_, and _Burgomistress Márfa_. + + In 1803 Karamzín was appointed historiographer, and he began to busy + himself with Russian antiquity. After twelve years of labour appeared + the first eight volumes of his _History of the Russian Empire_, in + which he continued the sentimental idealisation of the Russian past. + Though extolled by his contemporaries, and even later, as the first + real history of Russia, it differs from those of his predecessors, the + Russians Shcherbátov (see vol. i., p. 287) and Tatíshchev (_ib._, p. + 218), and the German historians in Russia, not by any scientific + method, but by its literary exposition, which served as a model for a + generation of historical novelists. Karamzín’s greatest desert + consists in having purified the Russian language from the dross of + Church-Slavic words and constructions, by borrowing freely from the + store of the spoken language, and by following the simpler + constructions and the shorter sentences of the French and the English + languages. This innovation involved him in a long controversy with the + adherents of the old style, of which Admiral Shishkóv was the head, + but he came out victorious, and for ever established the Russian + literary norm. + + There are several translations, or rather paraphrases, of Karamzín’s + stories, and one of his Travels, in English: _Russian Tales_, ... + translated into English by J. B. Elrington, London, 1803; _Julia_, + translated from the Russ into French by M. du Boullier, and from the + French into English by Ann P. H.[awkins], St. Petersburg, 1803; _Tales + from the Russian of Nicolai Karamsin_ [translated by A. A. Feldborg], + London, 1804; _Travels from Moscow, through Prussia, Germany, + Switzerland, France, and England_ ... translated from the German [by + A. A. Feldborg], 3 vols., London, 1803. A few of his poems are given + in Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I.: _The + Song of Bornholm_, _The Churchyard_, _Autumn_, _Lilea_, _To Nicander_; + and in Part II.: _Raïssa_, _The Haven_, _Song of the Good Tzar_, + _To ----_, _To the Nightingale_. An epigram is translated by V. E. + Marsden in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 9, and there is + also a version of _The Churchyard_ by W. H. Dole (publication not + ascertainable). + + + LETTERS OF A RUSSIAN TRAVELLER + + + TVER, May 18, 1789. + +I have departed from you, my dear ones, I have departed! My heart is +attached to you with all its tenderest feelings; and here I am getting +farther and farther away from you! + +O heart, heart! Who knows what you want? For how many years travel has +been the fondest dream of my imagination! Did I not in rapture say to +myself: “At last you will start”? Did I not awaken joyfully in the +morning, did I not fall asleep with pleasure, thinking: “You are going +to travel”? How long I could think of nothing else, busy myself with +nothing else except the journey! And did I not count the days and hours? +But when the desired hour arrived, I grew sorrowful, for I came to the +first vivid realisation that I was about to part from the dearest people +in the world, and from all that, so to say, entered into the composition +of my moral existence. + +Whatever I looked at, whether at the table upon which I had for years +committed my unripe thoughts and feelings to paper; at the window under +which I used to sit dolefully in my fits of melancholy, and where the +rising sun found me so often; at the Gothic house, the favourite object +of my eyes in the nocturnal hours,--in short, everything that came +within my vision was for me a precious monument of the bygone years of +my life, rich not in deeds, but in thoughts and feelings. I bade +farewell to inanimate things as to friends; and while I was overcome and +dispirited, my servants came, and began to weep and entreat me not to +forget them and to take them back upon my return. Tears are contagious, +my dear ones, especially in such circumstances. + +But you are the dearest to me, and I had to part from you. My heart was +so full that I forgot to speak. But why should I tell you that? The +moment when we bade each other good-bye was such that a thousand +agreeable minutes of the future will scarcely repay me for it. + +Dear Petróv accompanied me to the toll-gate. There we embraced each +other, and for the first time I observed his tears; there I seated +myself in the kibítka,[1] glanced at Moscow, where I left behind so much +that was dear to me, and said: “Good-bye!” The bells jingled, the horses +galloped away,--and your friend was orphaned in the world, and his soul +was orphaned! + +The whole past is a dream and a shadow! Oh! where are the hours when my +heart was so at ease among you, my dear ones? If the future were +suddenly revealed to the most fortunate man, his heart would congeal +with terror, and his tongue would grow dumb the very moment in which he +deemed himself the happiest of mortals. + +Upon my whole journey not one cheering thought entered my mind. At the +last station in Tver, my melancholy had so increased that, standing, in +the village tavern, before the caricatures of the French Queen and the +Roman Emperor, I felt, as Shakspere says, “my blood weeping from my +heart.” All that I had left behind appeared to me in such a touching +aspect. But enough, enough! I am again growing very sad. Good-bye! May +God console you! Remember your friend, but without any grievous feeling! + + [1] Native vehicle. + + + ON THE FRENCH TRAGEDY + +In the so-called _French Theatre_ they play tragedies, dramas, and large +comedies. I have not changed my opinion of the French Melpomene. She is +noble, majestic, beautiful, but she never will touch and stir my heart +as does the Muse of Shakspere and of a few (’t is true, a very few) +Germans. The French poets have a delicate, refined taste, and may serve +as models in the art of writing. Only in the matter of invention, +warmth, and deep sentiment of Nature,--forgive me, sacred shades of +Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire!--they must concede the supremacy to the +English and the Germans. Their tragedies are filled with artistic +pictures in which the colours and shades are skilfully matched; but I +generally admire them with a cold heart. There is everywhere a mixture +of the natural with the romantic; everywhere “mes feux,” “ma foi”; +everywhere Greeks and Romans _à la française_, who are dissolved in +amatory raptures, who sometimes philosophise, express one thought in a +variety of choice words, and, losing themselves in a maze of eloquence, +forget to act. The public demands here of the author beautiful verses, +“des vers à retenir”; these make a play famous, and, consequently, the +versifiers use all their efforts to multiply their number, and are more +concerned about them than about the importance of the plot and the new, +extraordinary, yet natural situations, forgetting that character is +revealed in these unusual occurrences and that the very words obtain +their strength from them. + +To be short, the creations of the French Melpomene are glorious, and +will always be glorious, by the beauty of their diction and brilliant +verses; but if a tragedy is deeply to stir our hearts or to terrify our +souls, Voltaire’s countrymen have, probably, no more than two real +tragedies, and D’Alembert very justly remarked that all their dramas +have been composed for reading rather than for the theatre. + + + ON SHAKSPERE + +In dramatic poetry the English have nothing remarkable, except the works +of one author, but that author is Shakspere, and the English are rich! + +It is easy to make light of him, not only with the mind of a Voltaire, +but also with the most ordinary mind. I do not wish even to dispute with +him who does not feel his great beauties. The amusing critics of +Shakspere resemble those naughty urchins who in the street surround a +strangely dressed man and cry out: “What a funny fellow! What a strange +fellow!” + +Every author is marked with the stamp of his age. Shakspere wished to +please his contemporaries, knew their taste, and satisfied it. What +seemed to be witty then is now wearisome and repulsive; this is the +result of the evolution of the mind and taste, with which even the +greatest genius cannot count. But every real talent creates for +eternity, though paying the tribute to his age: the contemporary +beauties disappear, and the common ones that are based on the human +heart and on the nature of things preserve their strength, in Shakspere +as in Homer. The grandeur and truthfulness of the characters, the +attractiveness of the plot, the revelation of the human heart, and the +great thoughts that are scattered in the dramas of the British genius +will always keep their magic charm for people who are endowed with +sentiment. I know no other poet who has such an all-embracing, fertile, +inexhaustible imagination,--and you will find all kinds of poetry in +Shakspere’s works. He is the favourite son of the goddess Fancy who +surrendered to him her magic wand, and disporting in the luxuriant +gardens of the imagination he creates miracles at each step. + + + LONDON, September, 1790 + +There was a time, when I had hardly seen any Englishmen, when I went +into ecstasy over them, and imagined England to be of all countries the +most agreeable to my heart. With what delight, being a boarding pupil at +Professor S’s, I used to read during the American war the reports of the +victorious British admirals! Rodney, Howe, did not leave my tongue; I +celebrated their victories and invited my young schoolmates to my room. +It seemed to me that to be an Englishman was to be brave, also +magnanimous, sentimental, and true. If I am not mistaken, novels were +the chief foundation for this opinion. Now I see the English at close +range, and I do them justice and praise them, but my praise is as cold +as they themselves are. + +Above all, I should not like to pass my life in England on account of +its damp, gloomy, sombre climate. I know that one may be happy even in +Siberia when the heart is satisfied and joyful, but a cheerful climate +makes us more cheerful, and here one feels, in a fit of pining and +melancholy, more than elsewhere like committing suicide. The groves, +parks, fields, gardens,--all that is beautiful in England; but it is all +covered with fogs, darkness, and coal smoke. The sun rarely peeps +through, and then only for a short time; but without it life upon earth +is not a pleasure. “Give my regards to the sun,” someone wrote from here +to his friend in Naples; “I have not seen him for a long time.” The +English winter is not so cold as ours; but we have at least beautiful +days in winter, which are uncommon here even in summer. How, then, can +an Englishman keep himself from looking like September? + +In the second place, their cold natures do not please me in the least. +“It is a snow-covered volcano,” a French emigrant said of them smilingly +to me. But I stand, watch, see no flame, and meanwhile freeze. My +Russian heart loves to bubble in a sincere, lively conversation, loves +the play of the eyes, the rapid changes of the face, the expressive +motion of the hands. The Englishman is reticent, indifferent, and speaks +as he reads, without ever expressing those sudden mental convulsions +that electrify our whole physical system. They say he is profounder than +others. Is it not rather that he _seems_ profounder? Is it not because +his thick blood moves more slowly in him, and gives him the aspect of +being deep in thoughts, though he often has none? The example of a +Bacon, Newton, Locke, Hobbes, proves nothing. Geniuses are born in all +lands; the universe is their country, and, then, can it be said in +justice that, for example, Locke is deeper than Descartes and Leibnitz? + + + THE CHURCHYARD + + FIRST VOICE + + How frightful the grave! How deserted and drear! + With the howls of the storm-wind, the creaks of the bier, + And the white bones all clattering together! + + SECOND VOICE + + How peaceful the grave! Its quiet how deep! + Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, + And flowerets perfume it with ether. + + FIRST VOICE + + There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead, + And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed, + And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss. + + SECOND VOICE + + How lovely, how lone the repose of the tomb! + No tempests are there, but the nightingales come + And sing their sweet chorus of bliss. + + FIRST VOICE + + The ravens of night flap their wings o’er the grave: + ’T is the vulture’s abode; ’t is the wolf’s dreary cave, + Where they tear up the earth with their fangs. + + SECOND VOICE + + There the coney at evening disports with his love, + Or rests on the sod, while the turtles above + Repose on the bough that o’erhangs. + + FIRST VOICE + + There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath + And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death, + The trees are all barren and bare. + + SECOND VOICE + + Oh, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb, + And sweet with the violet’s wafted perfume, + With lilies and jessamine fair! + + FIRST VOICE + + The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears + Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears + He is launched on the wreck-covered river. + + SECOND VOICE + + The traveller outworn with life’s pilgrimage dreary, + Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary, + And sweetly reposes for ever. + + --From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part + I. + + + POOR LÍZA + +Perchance none of those who live in Moscow know the surroundings of that +city so well as I do, because nobody is oftener in the open than I, +nobody oftener wanders about, planlessly, aimlessly, whither his eyes +carry him, through meadows and groves, over hills and vales. Every +summer I discover new places of delight, or new beauties in those I +already know. + +But most pleasant to me is the place where rise the sombre Gothic towers +of the monastery of St. Simeon. Standing on that mound, you survey upon +your right nearly all of Moscow, that enormous mass of houses and +churches, that presents itself to the eyes in the form of a majestic +amphitheatre,--a superb picture, especially when the sun shines upon it, +when his evening rays gleam on the innumerable gilded cupolas and the +innumerable crosses that tower to heaven! + +Below, stretch the luscious, dark-green, blossoming fields; beyond them, +there flows over the yellow sands the limpid river, stirred by the light +oars of fishing-boats, or splashing under the prows of freighted barges +that come from the more fertile parts of the Russian Empire and supply +hungry Moscow with grain. On the other side of the river there is seen +an oak grove, and near it graze numerous flocks. There young shepherds, +sitting in the shade of trees, sing simple, doleful songs, and thus +shorten the monotonous summer days. A little farther off, in the dense +verdure of ancient elms, gleams the gold-domed monastery of St. +Daniel’s; still farther away, almost on the verge of the horizon, loom +the blue outlines of the Sparrow Hills. To the left appear vast, +grain-covered fields, groves, three or four villages, and, in the +distance, Kolómna with its high palace. + +I often repair to that spot, and nearly always meet spring there; +thither I also repair in the gloomy days of autumn, to mourn together +with Nature. The winds moan terribly within the walls of the deserted +monastery, in the rank grass of the graves, and in the dark corridors of +the cells. There I lean against the ruins of the tombstones and hearken +to the hollow groan of Time, the groan of those swallowed by the abyss +of the past, which makes my heart flutter and tremble. At times I enter +into the cells, and I picture to myself those who have lived in +them,--sad pictures! Here I see a grey-haired old man bending his knee +before the crucifix and imploring a swift liberation from his earthly +fetters, for all pleasures of life have left him, all his feelings are +dead, except the feeling of ill-health and weakness. There a youthful +monk, with pale face and languishing glance, looks through the latticed +window, sees the merry birds that freely swim in the aërial ocean,--sees +them, and bitter tears issue from his eyes. He pines, withers, dries +up,--and the dismal sound of a bell announces to me his untimely death. + +At times I scan on the doors of the sanctuary the representation of +miracles that have taken place in this monastery: there fishes fall from +heaven to appease the hunger of the denizens of the cloister that is +besieged by a multitudinous host; here the image of the Mother of God +puts the enemy to flight. All that refreshes in my mind the history of +our country,--the sad history of those times when the savage Tartars and +Lithuanians with fire and sword laid waste the surroundings of the +Russian capital, and when luckless Moscow, like a defenceless widow, +awaited from God alone succour in her dire distress. + +But most frequently of all I am attracted to the walls of St. Simeon’s +monastery by the memory of the tearful fate of Líza, poor Líza. Oh! I +love those objects that touch my heart and cause me to shed tears of +tender sorrow! + +Some five hundred feet from the cloister wall there stands, near a birch +grove, amidst a green field, a deserted hut without doors, without +windows, without a floor; its roof is decayed and has fallen in long +ago. In that hut there lived, some thirty years ago, lovely Líza with +her old mother. + +Líza’s father was a fairly well-to-do peasant, for he loved work, +carefully tilled the soil, and always led a sober life. But soon after +his death his wife and daughter fell into poverty. The indolent hand of +the hired servant ploughed the field carelessly, and the grain began to +give diminished returns. They were compelled to let their land to a +tenant, at an inconsiderable income. At the same time the poor widow, +who continuously shed tears for her deceased husband,--for peasant women +also know how to love,--grew weaker and weaker from day to day, and +finally could not work at all. Líza alone, who was fifteen years old at +her father’s death,--Líza alone did not spare her tender youth nor her +rare beauty, and laboured day and night: she wove hempen cloth, knit +stockings; in springtime picked flowers, and in winter berries, and sold +them in Moscow. Seeing the indefatigableness of her daughter, the +sensitive, gentle old woman frequently pressed her to her feebly beating +heart, called her “divine grace, protector, consolation of my old age,” +and prayed to God to reward her for all she did for her mother. + +“God gave me hands to work,” Líza would say. “You nourished me at your +breast, watched me in my childhood. Now it is my turn to look after you. +Only stop grieving, stop weeping! Our tears will not bring father to +life.” + +But often gentle Líza could not restrain her own tears, for oh! she +recalled that she had had a father, and that he was no more; but to +comfort her mother she tried to hide the grief of her heart, and to +appear calm and gay. + +“In the world to come, beloved Líza,” the sorrowing old woman answered, +“in the world to come I shall cease to weep. There, they say, we shall +all be happy; I shall certainly be happy when I see your father again. +But I do not wish to die now, for what would become of you without me? +To whom could I leave you? No, God grant me first to see you provided +for! Maybe some good man will be found for you. Then I will bless you, +my dear children, will make the sign of the cross, and willingly will +lie down in the damp earth.” + + + FROM THE “HISTORY OF THE RUSSIAN EMPIRE” + + INTRODUCTION + +History is in a certain sense the sacred book of the nations, their most +important and indispensable book, the mirror of their being and +activities, the tables of their revelation and of their laws, the +injunction of the ancestors to their posterity, the complement, the +exposition of the present, and the example for the future. + +Rulers and lawgivers act according to the lessons of history, and look +upon its pages as the mariner looks upon his ocean charts. Human wisdom +is in need of experience, and life is short. It is necessary to know how +riotous passions have of yore agitated civil society, and in what manner +the beneficent dominion of reason has bridled its tempestuous onrush, in +order to establish order, harmonise the interests of men, and give them +the best attainable happiness upon earth. + +But even a simple citizen must read history. It reconciles him to the +imperfection of the visible order of things, as to a common phenomenon +in all ages; consoles him in his country’s calamities, by certifying to +former similar, even more ominous misfortunes, by which the country did +not perish; it fosters a moral sense, and by its equitable judgment +inclines the soul to justice, by which our well-being and the concord of +society are confirmed. + +Such is its usefulness, and many are the pleasures of heart and mind +that are derived from it. Curiosity is an innate feeling with the man of +culture and with the savage. At the famous Olympic games the noise died +down, and the masses preserved silence around Herodotus reading the +traditions of the ages. Even before knowing the use of letters, the +nations love history: the old man points out to the youth the elevated +tomb and narrates to him the deeds of the hero resting in it. The first +experiments of our ancestors in the art of writing were devoted to +religion and history; shrouded by a dense cloud of ignorance, the people +listened eagerly to the accounts of the chroniclers. Even fiction +pleases, but to get a full pleasure out of it we must deceive ourselves +and imagine that it is true. By opening the graves, raising the dead, +putting life into their hearts and words upon their lips, by recreating +kingdoms from the dust and presenting to the imagination a series of the +ages with their several passions, customs, acts,--history expands the +limits of our own existence. By its creative power we live with the men +of all times, see and hear them, love and hate them; before we think of +usefulness, we revel in the contemplation of the various occurrences and +of the characters that entertain the mind or nurture our sensibilities. + +If every history, even the inartistically written, may be pleasing, as +Pliny says,--how much more that of our native land! A true cosmopolite +is a metaphysical being or so unusual a phenomenon that there is no need +of speaking of him, neither to praise nor to condemn him. We are all +citizens,--in Europe and in India, in Mexico and in Abyssinia; the +personality of each is closely bound up with his country: we love it +because we love ourselves. The Greeks and the Romans may captivate our +imagination: they belong to the family of the human race and are no +strangers to us in their virtues and in their weaknesses, in their glory +and in their calamities; but the name of a Russian has a special +attraction for us: my heart beats more strongly for Pozhárski[2] than +for Themistocles or Scipio. Universal history by its great recollections +embellishes the world in our eyes, but Russian history embellishes our +country in which we live and feel. How attractive are to us the banks of +the Vólkhov, Dnieper, Don, when we know what has taken place upon them +in remote antiquity! Not only Nóvgorod, Kíev, Vladímir, but even the +cabins of Eléts, Kozélsk, Gálich, become interesting monuments, and mute +objects grow eloquent. The shadows of bygone centuries everywhere draw +pictures before us. + +Outside of their special value for us, sons of Russia, its annals have +an universal interest. Let us cast a glance at this unique Empire: +thought staggers! Rome in all her majesty, ruling from the Tiber to the +Caucasus, to the Elbe and to the African sands, could never equal it. Is +it not wonderful how a land that is disrupted by eternal barriers of +Nature, by immeasurable deserts and impenetrable forests, by cold and +hot climates, how Astrakhán and Lapland, Siberia and Bessarabia, could +have formed one empire with Moscow? And is that mixture of its +inhabitants less wonderful, that composite and heterogeneous mass of +varying degrees of civilisation? Like America, Russia has its savages; +like other countries of Europe, it displays the fruits of a protracted +civil existence. One need not be a Russian, one need only think, in +order to read with curiosity the traditions of a nation that by daring +and courage has obtained the dominion over the ninth part of the world, +has discovered countries, heretofore unknown, has entered them in the +universal system of geography and history, and has enlightened them +through God-sent faith, without violence, without atrocities practised +by the other devotees of Christianity in Europe and America, but merely +by dint of good example. + +We shall admit that the deeds described by Herodotus, Thucydides, Livy, +are in general more interesting to others than to Russians, representing +as they do more force of character and a more vivid play of the +passions, since Greece and Rome were world powers and more enlightened +than Russia; yet we may boldly assert that certain incidents, pictures, +characters, of our history are not less curious than those of antiquity. +Such are the exploits of Svyatosláv, the scourge of Batý, the popular +rising under Donskóy, the fall of Nóvgorod, the taking of Kazán, the +victory of the civic virtues in the time of the interregnum. The giants +of the early dawn, Olég and the son of Ígor; the simple-minded knight, +blind Vasílko; the friend of his country, virtuous Monomákh; the brave +Mstislávs, terrible in war and an example of meekness in peace; Mikhaíl +of Tver, so famed for his magnanimous death; the ill-fated, truly +courageous Aleksándr Névski; the youthful hero, the vanquisher of +Mamáy,--the slightest sketch of them acts powerfully on the imagination +and on the heart. The reign of Iván III. alone is a rare treasure of +history; at least I know of no monarch more worthy to live and shine in +its sanctuary. The rays of his glory fall upon the cradle of Peter, and +between these two autocrats are the remarkable Iván IV. and Godunóv, who +merited his good fortune and his reverses; the strange False Demetrius; +and, after a host of valiant patriots, boyárs, and citizens, the mentor +of the enthroned, Patriarch Filarét with his august son, the +light-bearer in the darkness of our country’s woes; and Tsar Alexis, the +wise father of the Emperor whom Europe has called the Great. Either all +modern history must be silent, or that of Russia has a right to be +heard. + + [2] The liberator of Russia, during the interregnum of the False + Demetrius. + + + + + Iván Andréevich Krylóv. (1768-1844.) + + + Krylóv’s biography is not satisfactory. It is known that he was the + son of a poor army officer, and that he lost his father early in life. + He received only the scantiest education, and while still a boy became + acquainted with practical life. He served in various capacities in the + government offices of St. Petersburg and the province. Then he + disappeared from public view for a number of years, though it is + surmised that he passed much of that time gambling at cards, to which + he was passionately addicted. In 1812 he received an appointment at + the Imperial (later the Public) Library, which gave him ample leisure + to devote himself to literature, though his innate laziness made him + very unproductive. Krylóv first entered the literary career before the + age of twenty, by a series of mediocre comedies. From 1789 he edited a + number of periodicals, the first of which, _The Spirit Post_, was in + the manner of the older satirical journals. It was here that he began + to develop the fine satirical vein for which his fables later became + so famous. In 1809 appeared the first small collection of his fables. + Most of his subjects he borrowed from the older writers, especially + from La Fontaine, but he not only gave them a Russian surrounding, but + invested them with such an artistic atmosphere as to make them the + possession of all times and all nations. His fables have been + translated into all the European and some of the Asiatic languages. + + There are several translations of Krylóv in English: _Krilof and his + Fables_, by W. R. S. Ralston, London, 1869 (4th edition, 1883; several + of the poems had been published before, in 1868 and 1870, in _Good + Words_); _Krilof’s Fables, Illustrating Russian Social Life_, + translated from the Russian for the Calcutta Weekly “Englishman” [by + J. Long], Calcutta, 1869; _Kriloff’s Original Fables_, translated by + I. H. Harrison, London, 1883. Separate fables have been translated by + Sir John Bowring in his _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I. + (from the manuscript furnished him by Krylóv); three poems, given + below [by W. D. Lewis] in the National Gazette and Literary Register, + Philadelphia, 1825; in _Russian Fabulists, with Specimens_, in + Fraser’s Magazine, 1839 and 1842; in Chambers’s Journal, vol. V., + 1856; by Sutherland Edwards, in _The Russians at Home_, London, 1861; + by R. Garnett, in The University Magazine, 1879 (_Fables from + Krilof_); by C. T. Wilson, in _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887; by John + Pollen, in _Rhymes from the Russian_, London, 1891. + + + THE ASS AND THE NIGHTINGALE + + Chancing a Nightingale to meet, + Thus did an Ass the songstress greet:-- + “Whither in such a hurry winging? + I ’m told, my dear, you ’re famed for singing. + My curiosity I fain would satisfy, + So if you ’ll condescend to gratify,-- + Come! for a specimen of your rare skill, + And let me hear how featly you can trill!” + Forthwith the Nightingale began, + And through her cadences she ran, + Now tender and most soft, + Anon her voice she raised aloft; + While all around in silence hushed + Listened to her melting strain, + As its music sweetly gushed, + And floated over dale and plain; + Hardly breathed the enraptured swain + As drank his ear of sound the stream, + And as he mused on the varying theme. + Ceased the songstress, the critic Ass + His sentence thus began to pass:-- + “Upon my word, ’t is not amiss! + Yet you should hear + Friend Chanticleer. + From him some lessons you ’d do well to take. + His mode of singing well I know, + Nor can there finer be, I trow. + Yes! He is clever; + And you, my dear, should by all means endeavour + Like him to crow! + He has a voice--a shake-- + That really keeps folks quite awake. + Yet after all you do not sing amiss.” + On hearing this, + Far away the song-bird flew. + + --From _Russian Fabulists, with Specimens_, in Fraser’s Magazine, + 1842. + + + THE QUARTETTE + +The tricksy Monkey, the Goat, the Ass, and bandy-legged Míshka the Bear, +determine to play a quartette. They provide themselves with the +necessary pieces of music--with two fiddles, and with an alto and +counter-bass. Then they sit down on a meadow under a lime-tree, prepared +to enchant the world by their skill. They work away at their +fiddlesticks with a will; and they make a noise, but there is no music +in it. + +“Stop, brothers, stop!” cried the Monkey, “wait a little! How can we get +our music right? It ’s plain, you must n’t sit as you are. You, Míshka, +with your counter-bass, face the alto. I will sit opposite the fiddle. +Then a different sort of music will begin: we shall set the very hills +and forests dancing.” + +So they changed places, and recommenced; but the music is just as +discordant as ever. + +“Stop a little!” exclaims the Ass; “I have found out the secret. We +shall be sure to play in tune if we sit in a row.” + +They follow its advice, and form in an orderly line. But the quartette +is as unmusical as ever. Louder than before there arose among them +squabbling and wrangling as to how they ought to be seated. It happened +that a Nightingale came flying that way, attracted by their noise. At +once they all entreat it to solve their difficulty. + +“Be so kind,” they say, “as to bear with us a little, in order that our +quartette may come off properly. Music we have; instruments we have: +tell us only how we ought to place ourselves.” + +But the Nightingale replies: + +“To be a musician, one must have a quicker intelligence and finer ear +than you possess. You, my friends, may place yourselves just as you +like, but you will never become musicians.” + + --From W. R. S. Ralston’s _Krilof and his Fables_. + + + DAMIAN’S FISHSOUP + + “Well, neighbour, now you are a brick! + Come, try some more.” + “Neighbour, I ’m bursting quite.”--“No humbug, quick-- + One plateful let me pour: + Real fishsoup, see what soup, done to a _t_.”-- + “But that ’s my third.”--“Hush! here we count nor plates nor glasses-- + With a good appetite all passes: + Digestion ’s good for sleep, you see. + ’T is tempting, ’t is a very jelly; + Look at the amber that its surface coats, + Indulge, old chum, unto thy heart’s content! + See there, ’t is bream, here sterlet choice that floats! + That liver there for thee was meant. + Another spoonful!--Wife, thy reverence make!-- + One small one more, and for my sake!” + Thus feasted Damian once his old friend Neddy; + No time to breathe or talk, kept to it steady. + Down Neddy’s face had long been trickling rain, + But, yielding unto fate, his plate he hands again; + And, summoning his strength remaining, + He swallows all.--“Now, that a friend I call,” + Exulting Damian cries; “why on excuses fall + To spare my cheer? Then once more show your training!” + Then hapless Neddy, who + Doted on fish, at this aggression new, + Seizing his coat, + Stick, and capote, + Ran straight and swiftly to his own street door, + And ne’er set foot in Damian’s parlour more. + + Good author, happy thou in gift beyond dispute; + But, if thou hast not learned yet to be mute, + Boring unwilling ears to suit + Nor time nor place, be sure--thy verse or prose + More sickening e’en than Damian’s fishsoup grows. + + --From I. H. Harrison’s _Kriloff’s Original Fables_. + + + THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB + + Whene’er companions don’t agree, + They work without accord; + And naught but trouble doth result, + Although they all work hard. + + One day a Swan, a Pike, a Crab, + Resolved a load to haul. + All three were harnessed to the cart, + And pulled together all. + But though they pulled with all their might, + That cart-load on the bank stuck tight. + + The Swan pulled upwards to the skies, + The Crab did backwards crawl, + The Pike made for the water straight: + This proved no use at all. + + Now, which of them was most to blame + ’T is not for me to say, + But this I know,--the load is there + Unto this very day. + + --From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_. + + + THE LION AND THE WOLF + + A hungry Lion on a lamb was feeding, + When a poor dog passed by, + And, with a patient look of meekness pleading, + Shared in the banquet, while the royal beast + Smiled at his ignorant simplicity. + A Wolf looked on, and said: “And surely I + May have a portion of the prey,--at least, + Indeed, I ’ll try.” + He came,--came boldly: when the Lion saw + His purpose, he upraised his kingly paw, + Smote him to earth, and left him there to die. + There ’s some excuse for inexperience; + But none for daring, insolent pretence. + + --From National Gazette and Literary Register, Philadelphia, + September 3, 1825. + + + THE CLOUD + + Over the thirsty plains a pregnant Cloud + Rolled on its forward way; + Scorning the cliffs whose summit proud + Beneath it lay; + While to the overflowing sea + It poured its waters forth rejoicingly. + “Am I not liberal?” to the Mountain cried + The Cloud, while the swift torrents swelled the tide. + “Liberal! The panting field and sun-dried plain + Asked for one drop, one single drop, in vain,” + Exclaimed the Mountain; “liberal, indeed, + To those who asked no favour,--felt no need!” + + --_Ib._ + + + THE SHIPWRECKED SAILOR AND THE SEA. + + The waves had whelmed the venturous bark, + And dashed the shipwrecked seaman to the shore; + He turned himself, impatient at the roar, + And cried, “Perfidious Sea! + Why didst thou lure me, smiling tranquilly, + To such a fate, so desolate and dark?” + The Ocean-god awoke, and frowning said: + “Hurl not thy vain reproaches at my head; + My waters calmly ebb and flow, + Till the land-warring tempests break their rest, + Go! to the storm-winds be thy plaints addressed, + Go! to the whirlwind, go!” + + --_Ib._ + + + + + Aleksándr Efímovich Izmáylov. (1779-1831.) + + + Izmáylov was for a short time vice-governor of Tver and Arkhángelsk. + He published several periodicals, to which he contributed sentimental + novels in Karamzín’s style. He wrote a number of fables in a somewhat + coarse manner, which earned for him the title of “an author not for + ladies.” + + _The Drunkard’s Vow_ is given in _Russian Fabulists_, in Fraser’s + Magazine, vol. xxv., 1842; _The Drunkard’s Answer_, _The Ladder_, _The + Donkey and the Horse_ are given in Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_. An + epigram is translated by V. E. Marsden in The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society, No. 9. + + + THE DRUNKARD’S VOW + + A toper made a solemn vow he never more would touch, + Or punch, or grog, or spirits mixed, or any compounds such. + Yet though to make ’t was easy, to keep so strict a vow, + To prove an easy matter was not likely, you ’ll allow. + Soon after was our tippler seen reeling ’long the street. + “How now!” a neighbour cried, “why, you scarce can keep your feet. + I thought you had forsworn for ever punch and grog?” + “And so I have, nor do I now touch either, you dull dog; + But I keep my vow unbroken by drinking spirits _neat_.” + + --From _Russian Fabulists_, in Fraser’s Magazine, vol. xxv. + + + THE CANARY AND THE NIGHTINGALE + +In a beautiful cage near the window in the garden was a Canary who sang +the livelong day alone. At some distance, where an avenue of birches led +to a bramble bush, a lonely Nightingale sang through the nights and +early in the mornings. Both man and beast and bird, and all that have +blood, feel all-powerful love in spring. The two singers made each +other’s acquaintance, and forthwith the Canary forgot the naughty Parrot +in his foppish green uniform for the sake of the Nightingale. No sweeter +bird, in all the world, for her than the Nightingale, and what a +charming voice he had! + +The Nightingale, the favourite of the roses, frequently left at night +his fragrant birches, and flitted near the window over the flower bed, +and in the hope of a reward serenaded her in the lilac bushes, for he +loved the Canary with all his heart. At first, like the artist he was, +he appeared awkward and timid, but at last he made up his mind and, +sighing, explained his burning passion for her. The sentimental daughter +of the Canary Islands, who was yellower than straw and lemons, blinking, +sang out in semitones that the best of singers was dear to her. The +lovers agreed to fly into the distant forest (they had forgotten to +close the cage); so, the heavens favouring them, the bridegroom and +bride started for the wished-for woods. They flew for a long while, and +at last, late in the evening, alighted in a thicket; they kissed each +other and began to sing,--but they had not eaten since morning. So the +bride said to her husband: + +“How nice it is to listen to your singing! But, could I not have a bite +of something?” + +“Right away, my angel!” and the Nightingale flew away, as if pursued by +a hawk, and returned a minute later: + +“O friend of my soul! Here are little ants, they are very good! Here are +some ant eggs----” + +“Sir, that is no food for a bird brought up in the capital! Bring me +crackers and candy!” + +“Alas, there are none in the woods!” + +“No? Do you expect me to starve?” + +“Maybe I shall find some kernels in the field!” + +“What? Do you expect me to peck kernels?” + +And she began to scold her husband, broke her relations with him, and +transferred herself to the Parrot in the garden. + +Inexperienced bridegrooms! If you are charmed by a _cultivated_ maiden +who has never been away from the luxurious capital,--read with her my +verses; if she will agree to eat _forget-me-not soup_, you may safely +marry her. + + + THE TWO CATS + +Vánka the Cat and Váska were two brothers; they were both born and lived +in the same house. Vánka was so lean that it would frighten you to look +at him,--in truth, he was not rounder than a plank; whereas Váska was as +fat as the steward, and could barely waddle on account of his obesity; +his fur had the sheen of velvet. + +“We have not the same luck, though we are of one mother,” said the +skeleton to him. “You know no cares; you are never without meat, not +even on week-days. You are free to eat meat, while with me it is always +Lent; you sleep long, while I hardly know of sleep, preserving the whole +house from mice and rats,--yet, with all my zeal, I am hungry----” + +“And stupid!” the fat one interrupted him. “Brother, come to your +senses! Take me for an example, if you want to be fatter.” + +“Pray, what am I to do?” + +“Amuse your master, walk on your hind legs in his presence, dance, leap +over his arm when he stretches it out, and learn all my amusing tricks. +Believe me, you will be loved as well as have your hunger satisfied. +Know, silly one, that he who pleases people in trifles and foolish +things never loses by doing so; but he who labours for their benefit and +passes sleepless nights often stays hungry.” + + + + + Vasíli Trofímovich Naryézhny. (1780-1825.) + + + Naryézhny was born but a short distance from Gógol’s native place. In + 1801 he graduated from the Moscow University, and entered the army. + After that he served in various departments, rising to the post of + Chief of Department. He wrote a tragedy, _The False Demetrius_, which + was published in 1804; in 1814 appeared the first three volumes of + _The Russian Gil Blas_: the last three volumes did not get the + censor’s imprimatur. There is much in the manner of this + Little-Russian author that reminds of Gógol, who availed himself not + only of the genre of his predecessor, but also of the very + subject-matter for his classical creations. The very titles of + Naryézhny’s later works, _The Seminarist: A Little-Russian Story_, and + _The Two Iváns; or, The Passion for Litigation_, recur in a modified + form in Gógol’s works. It was only a short time ago that this relation + of the two authors was pointed out. + + + FROM “THE TWO IVÁNS; OR, THE PASSION FOR LITIGATION” + +The day was inclining to its fall, but the merriment in the house of the +hospitable host did not abate. A large number of visitors were not a +burden to him. He feasted the men, and his wife the women. Pan Kharitón +took the guests around in the garden, though the September winds had +already brought half of the leaves to the ground; to the barn, where he +figured out how much brandy every stack of rye would give him; to the +cattle yard, where he had occasion to boast of his bulls and cows, goats +and wethers. His spouse showed her friends from the window the flocks of +chickens, geese, ducks and turkeys, telling them in detail of the +peculiarities of every cock and hen. Is not that charming? + +When all had gathered again in the room, where the table was set with +earthen wine-jugs filled with steaming spiced brandy, and the host and +guests had placed their cups at random before them, they heard in the +yard the rattle of wheels and the tramp of horses, and soon appeared in +the assembly a thick-set man of some fifty years, expansive about his +abdomen and broad in his shoulders. His bald head shone like the full +moon. Who was that guest? The scribe of the hundred-court, Pan Anúri. +All rose respectfully, and the host gave him a friendly embrace, offered +him his seat, and set before him his cup of mulled brandy. They all +looked into his eyes, eagerly caught every word of his, and laughed +uproariously when that fool smiled at his own witticisms. + +When three cups had found their way into his entrails, he stood up +akimbo and announced: “What will you give me, Pan Kharitón, for the good +news which I bring you from town? The judge of the hundred-court said to +me, as he handed me this batch of papers: ‘Go, my friend, and place +these papers into the personal hands of Pan Kharitón!’ From this I +conclude,” proceeded Anúri, “that they are favourable, for I am seldom +wrong in my conclusions.” + +“I understand, I understand!” said Pan Kharitón, and went out smiling. +Anúri had barely gotten away with the fourth cup, when Pan Kharitón +appeared with some gifts and offered him a new hat of the best cowhide, +new boots, permeated by the purest tar, and a clay pipe, the work of the +first Poltáva potter. Pan Anúri received the offerings with +condescension and hastened to his two-wheeled cart to deposit them +there, after which he entered the room with a large sealed batch of +papers, handed it respectfully to Pan Kharitón, and seated himself in +his old place. Pan Kharitón cursorily glanced at every paper and said: +“After all the troubles I have had, my eyes have grown dim. Be so kind, +Pan Anúri, as to read them. The decree of the hundred-court is no +secret.” + +Pan Anúri took the documents with much dignity, selected from them the +judgment, put on his eyeglasses, and began to read: “Pan Kharitón Zanóza +appears as the plaintiff against Pan Iván Zúbar and Pan Iván Khtára, +claiming that they had burnt down his dove-cots with all the pigeons, of +which there were more than two hundred; the two Pans Iván, however, +declare that the apiary of the elder Iván, containing not less than +fifty hives, has been destroyed. + +“The hundred-court, having taken into consideration all circumstances, +as is meet, decrees: + +1. “Granting that during the fire of Pan Kharitón’s dove-cot all the +pigeons, of which there were more than two hundred, _i. e._, two hundred +and one, have perished, and estimating the price of each pigeon at the +maximum of a farthing, his damage amounts to fifty kopeks and a +farthing. But since the two Pans Iván declare under oath that they have +used as food only twenty birds, the real damage which they have done +amounts only to five kopeks; the rest of the pigeons either flew away, +or were burnt. Whereas nobody tied any of the aforesaid pigeons or cut +their wings, they might have flown away, and thus they were roasted by +their own free will. + +2. “Pan Iván the elder has lost fifty hives that at the time were full +of honey. Upon inquiry it is found that such a hive is worth sixty +kopeks, and thus his damage amounts to thirty roubles. Excluding from +that sum five kopeks, Pan Kharitón has caused to Pan Iván the elder a +real damage of twenty-nine roubles and ninety-five kopeks, which sum is +without delay to be turned over within three days to Scribe Anúri. Of +this sum twenty-eight roubles and ninety-five kopeks will be retained +for the necessary expenses of the hundred-court; the remaining rouble is +to be turned over to Pan Iván the elder, he signing a receipt for it.” + +Who will describe Pan Kharitón’s fury! He cracked the knuckles of his +fingers, stamped the floor with his feet, and rolled his eyes terribly. +Finally he jumped up like one beside himself, ran to the perplexed +scribe, grabbed the fatal judgment out of his hands, tore it to shreds, +and threw it into the eyes of the ambassador of the hundred-court. On +all sides was heard a noise and murmuring. Pan Kharitón paid no +attention to anything; he shouted to the scribe: “Why have you been +riding about upon my horses? Eh? Why have you been tilling your soil +with my steers, and sowing it with my grain? Eh? Why have you been +devouring my sheep and wethers, and making fur coats out of their hides? +Eh? Why have you been taking my money, you destroyers of souls, +good-for-nothings, robbers? Why have you been extorting money from me, I +say, if you had no intention to stand by me? Eh?” + +With these words, to the horror of all the guests and their +families,--for at the thunderous roar of Pan Kharitón all the women and +daughters of the guests had made their appearance,--he pulled Pan Anúri +by his collar, dragged him out into the yard, lifted him up, banged him +into his cart, jammed the reins into his hands, gave him two mighty +blows in his occiput, raised from the ground a birch club and began to +belabour, now the horse, now Anúri. The poor animal flew out of the yard +into the road as fast as it could, and Pan Kharitón ran out after the +cart and shouted to the scribe: “Tell the fool of a hundred-judge and +the good-for-nothing members of the hundred-court that they are +transgressors of the law, and that I shall go to-morrow to Poltáva to +cite them before the regimental chancery!” + + +Having obtained such a famous victory over their worst enemy in the +matter of the burnt-down dove-cot and destroyed apiary, the two Pans +Iván were travelling in triumph from the town to their abode, when they +espied in the middle of the road near the tavern the cart, and they +immediately knew to whom it belonged. + +“That ’s fortunate,” said Iván the elder: “we ’ll take the rouble that +belongs to us from Anúri and will give him a good treat.” + +They entered the tavern and sure enough saw Pan Anúri sitting over a +cup, but in a most dejected attitude. “What ’s the matter, Pan Anúri?” +cried out Iván the elder: “The cup is at your very mouth, and you look +so sad,--those things do not fit together. Jew, give us two more cups, +of anything you please, so it ’s of the best spirits! Really, you, Pan +Anúri, are a great fellow and pretty slick! Who would have thought you +could manage in so short a time that riotous head of worthless Zanóza?” + +“I should say I did manage!” said Anúri with a bitter smile and, filling +his cup, drank from it with unmistakable disgust. The two Iváns looked +at his strange action in wonderment, and pressed him with all kinds of +questions. + +Anúri told them all in detail. Having listened with undisguised +attention to this incident which had been unheard of in Little-Russia +from its beginning, the two Iváns were heartily glad, and the elder one +clapped his hands. Anúri showed a very dissatisfied look and asked: + +“Is it possible that you, whom I regarded as my friends, can rejoice at +my having had my occiput boxed and at the descent of full-weighted blows +upon my back?” + +“Not at all,” answered Iván the elder: “we rejoice and are merry not +because you, our friend and go-between, have received a fine drubbing, +but because it has been administered to the worshipful scribe of the +hundred-court by the bold hand of furious Zanóza. We hope that this +wrongdoing will be his surer undoing than massacred coneys, maimed +geese, ducks, sheep and, finally, the destroyed apiary! It is no +trifling matter to dare box the occiput and warm up ten times with a +birch rod Pan Anúri, a man grown grey and bald among papers, ink, and +pens!” + +“He ’s warmed me up just twelve times,” said Pan Anúri proudly, “and +though he missed me the thirteenth time, it ought to be counted a blow +all the same. Besides, he has disgraced the judge and the hundred-court +with the foulest curses, and in the presence of an immense throng of +noblemen and ladies; he dragged me through the whole room, which is the +same as if he dragged me through the whole house;--then by my collar +which reaches up to my occiput, hence it is the same as if he had pulled +me along by my hair. O Pans Iván! If you rejoice because Kharitón Zanóza +will be repaid for this godless deed with interest, I am glad! Oh, if he +had twice the property he possesses, it would not be enough to pay me +for the disgrace and battery. No! he will have to become acquainted with +the city prison and find out the taste of stale bread and water. I give +you my hand that this will happen, and before long!” + + + + + Vasíli Andréevich Zhukóvski. (1783-1852.) + + + Zhukóvski was the son of a landed proprietor of Túla, by the name of + Búnin, and of a captive Turkish woman, but received his own name from + his godfather, who happened to be living at Búnin’s house. After the + death of his father he was adopted by Mrs. Búnin, who cared for him as + for her own son. He was first educated in the public school of Túla, + but was requested to be removed on account of dulness. He was then + privately brought up in the house of his godmother, where, at the age + of twelve, he composed and acted two dramas--one of them from Roman + history. In 1796 he was taken to Moscow to be placed in the + boarding-school that was connected with the Moscow University. He + there came in contact with a number of talented young men who later + made their mark in literature, and under the inspiring influence of + the school began, at the early age of fourteen, to contribute poems to + the periodical press. His earliest verses contained frequent + references to death and the cemetery, and when, a few years later, he + lost a friend, he remembered him by translating Gray’s _Elegy_. That + was the beginning of his literary fame. He then translated a large + number of poetical productions from the German, French, and English, + invariably choosing melancholy subjects, as more adapted to his + sentimental, reflective nature. + + It was chiefly Zhukóvski who transplanted the German Romanticism to + Russia, but his deserts are not only in having abandoned the + pseudo-classic style of poetry: he was the first to recognise the + important educational value of poetry, and its moral power, which made + it the equal of religion, or, as Zhukóvski put it, “Poetry is the + terrestrial sister of heavenly religion,” and “Poetry is virtue.” He + achieved his fame by his ballad _Svyetlána_. The _Minstrel of the + Russian Camp_ was written by him at the campfires during the War of + 1812: it produced a tremendous outburst of enthusiasm among the whole + army. He soon became a great favourite at the Court, and in 1817 was + chosen as teacher of Russian to the German bride of Crown Prince + Nicholas. In 1841 he left Russia never to return, and died in + Baden-Baden in 1852. His body was taken to Russia, where he was buried + by the side of Karamzín. + + Sir John Bowring gives in _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I.: + _The Mariner_, _Æolus’s Harp Song (Say, ye gentle breezes, say)_, + _Romance_; in Part II.: _The Minstrel in the Russian Camp_, + _Svyetlána_ (under the name of _Catherine_), _Theon and Æschines_, + _The Bard_; a prose version of _Svyetlána_, under the name of + _Christmas Omens_, by W. D. Lewis, was given in The Atlantic Souvenir, + Philadelphia, 1828; another translation, under the title of _The Eve + of St. Silvester_, from the Russian of Tzobovsk (?), by J. C. M., was + given in Dublin University Magazine, vol. xxxi., 1848; C. T. Wilson, + in _Russian Lyrics_, gives _The Flower_, extract from _The Minstrel in + the Russian Camp, Svyetlána_; in the Library of the World’s Best + Literature are given N. H. Dole’s translations of _Happiness in + Slumber_ and _The Coming of Spring Night_. + + + SVYETLÁNA[3] + + St. Silvester’s evening hour + Calls the maidens round: + Shoes to throw behind the door, + Delve the snowy ground. + Peep behind the window there, + Burning wax to pour; + And the corn for chanticleer + Reckon three times o’er. + In the water-fountain fling + Solemnly the golden ring, + Earrings, too, of gold; + Kerchief white must cover them + While we ’re chanting over them + Magic songs of old. + + Feebly through the vapours shine + Moonbeams on the hill; + Silently sat Catherine, + Sorrowful and still. + “Maiden, why so pensive? We + Fain thy voice would hear-- + Come and join our revelry! + Take the ring, thou dear! + Sing, ‘Make haste and melt, and bring, + Goldsmith! Come with golden ring, + Golden wreath for Kate! + Ring to deck her hand of snow, + Wreath to bloom upon her brow + At the altar-gate.’” + + “I can sing no choral song + While my love ’s away, + For my days are sad and long,-- + Gloomier every day. + Left alone,--a year is past,-- + Not a line to send,-- + Oh, my life is but a waste, + Severed from my friend! + Hast thou then forgotten me? + Tell me, wanderer! can it be? + Where ’s thy dwelling, where? + See, I pine ’neath secret smart: + Guardian angel! Watch my heart,-- + Listen to my prayer!” + + Covered with a napkin white, + Stood a table there, + Where a mirror, clear and bright, + Shone amidst the glare. + Vacant seats for two were placed,-- + “Look within, O look! + ’T is the hour of spirits,--haste! + Read Fate’s opening book: + To the mirror turn thy eye, + And the door shall silently + Open,--list, ’t is he! + Gently shall thy lover glide, + Seat him by his maiden’s side, + And shall sup with thee.” + + Cath’rine sat before the glass,-- + All alone was she, + Watching all the shades that pass, + Shuddering inwardly. + But the glass is dark and drear, + Still as death the room; + Scarce a fading taper there + Flitted midst the gloom. + Oh, how fear her bosom shook! + Backwards then she dared not look! + Dread had dimmed her sight: + And the dying taper’s noise, + And the cricket’s chirping voice, + Cried,--“’T is middle-night!” + + Breathless terror chilled her o’er, + And she shades her brow:-- + List! a knock is at the door, + And it opens now: + To the mirror then she turned, + Stupefied with fear; + There two brilliant eyeballs burned, + Ever bent on her. + Horror heaved her breast, when lo! + Gentle accents, sweet and slow, + Glided on her ear: + “All thy wishes are fulfilled,-- + All thy spirit’s sighs be stilled,-- + ’T is thy lover, dear!” + + Cath’rine looked--her lover’s arm + Was around her thrown: + “Maiden! Banish all alarm, + We are ever one! + Come! the priest is waiting now, + Life with life to blend; + Torches in the chapel glow, + Bridal songs ascend.” + Cath’rine smiled,--her lover led,-- + O’er the snow-clad court they sped, + And the portals gain; + There a ready sledge they found,-- + Two fleet coursers stamp the ground, + Struggling with the rein. + + Onwards! Like the wind they go, + When the storm awakes, + Scattering round them clouds of snow, + While the pathway shakes. + All was dark and wild as night, + Terrible and new; + Mist-wreaths dimmed the pale moon’s light, + Plains were drenched in dew. + Fear again possessed the maid, + And in gentlest tones she said, + “Speak, my lover true!” + He was silent then, but soon + Turned him to the wintry moon,-- + Pale and paler grew. + + Through the snow, a mountain’s height, + Next the wild steeds passed; + And a church appeared in sight, + Midst a gloomy waste; + Then a whirlwind burst the door-- + Men are there who mourn; + Clouds of incense rolling o’er, + Wax and taper burn. + Lo! a black sepulchral shroud-- + “Dust to dust!” the priest aloud + Chants,--the horses flew + Tow’rds the door,--her agony + Rose,--he spoke no word,--but he + Pale and paler grew. + + Clouds of snow ascend again-- + Lo! the coursers fly; + And a raven on the plain + Croaks and passes by; + ’T was an awful, ominous sound! + And the moonlight wanes; + Darkness wraps the desert round + O’er the steaming manes. + See! a glimmering light is there, + And upon the heather bare + Stands a humble shed. + Swifter, swifter flew the car, + Whirled the snow around it far, + But no farther sped. + + At the door they stopped anon, + There, a moment stood:-- + Steeds, sledge, bridegroom,--all are gone: + All is solitude. + Cath’rine on the waste was left, + Midst dense clouds of snow, + Of her lover now bereft, + To commune with woe: + But she hears a footstep now, + Turns, and sees a taper glow, + Crosses her, and stalks + Trembling to the door, and knocks:-- + Of itself the door unlocks,-- + In the maiden walks. + + There, upon a winding-sheet, + Lay a mortal bier; + Christ’s bright image at its feet + Shone resplendent there. + Whither, whither art thou come, + Maiden, all unblest? + Thou hast sought a wretched home, + Art a hapless guest! + Cath’rine to the image flies, + Wipes the snow-dust from her eyes, + Bends her down and weeps; + Presses to her breast the cross,-- + Thoughts of heaven her soul engross, + And she silence keeps. + + All is still!--The storm is hushed, + Faint the tapers beam, + Light across the chamber rushed,-- + Momentary gleam:-- + All is wrapped in silence deep + As when visions come. + List! what gentle rustlings sweep + Through the hallowed room: + Lo! a dart of silvery white, + Soft and still, with eyes of light, + Tow’rds the mourners springs: + For a moment hovers there, + Then upon her bosom fair + Flaps its beauteous wings. + + Silence reigned again.--Can all, + All illusion be? + Lo! the corpse beneath the pall + Shudders fearfully: + Burst the mantling bier of death, + Throws his shroudings by: + On his brow he wore a wreath, + Frozen was his eye: + From his lips a murmur breaks, + With his hand a sign he makes, + Pointing to the maid: + Trembling she,--she dared not move,-- + But the bright and silver dove + On her bosom played; + + Fanned her with its gentle wing:-- + To the dead man’s breast + Then she saw her sweet dove spring,-- + There it seemed to rest. + Heaved the icy corpse a sigh, + As in dark despair, + Gnashed his teeth in agony, + Turned his eyes on her. + Paler waxed those lips so pale; + And the fixed eye told the tale + That life’s film was broke. + Cath’rine! Lift thy drooping head! + All is o’er,--thy lover’s dead!-- + God!--and she awoke. + + Where?--within the selfsame room + Where the mirror stood:-- + Morn was chasing twilight’s gloom + With its golden flood; + Chanticleer had clapped his wing, + Sung his early song: + All is bright,--the matin rings,-- + Oh, thy dream was long! + Long indeed, and dreadful too; + And my spirit long shall rue + The dread prophecy! + Tell me, Future’s misty night, + Shall my fate be dark or bright, + Bliss or misery? + + Cath’rine in the window sat, + Sorrowful and still: + Tell me, tell me what is that?-- + Mist-cloud on the hill? + In the sunbeams shines the snow; + Leaps the frozen dew: + List! I hear the bells below, + And the horses too. + Lo! they come, the sledge is near,-- + Now the driver’s voice I hear,-- + They have passed the grove:-- + Fling the gates wide open, fling-- + Who ’s the guest the coursers bring? + Who?--’T is thou, my love! + + Cath’rine, tell me now! The dream-- + Is the dream forgot? + Youths may faithful be who seem + Faithless,--may they not? + When the light of love hath lent + Brightness to his eye; + When his lips are eloquent;-- + Timid maid! Reply! + Open now the temple-gate, + Spring on wings of joy elate, + Truth, we honour thee! + Pour the glass, and join the hymn, + Ne’er may days of darkness dim + Youth’s fidelity. + + Thou dost smile, sweet maid! But deem, + Deem it worth a thought, + For that memorable dream + Stores of wisdom brought. + Thou dost smile again,--but know, + It had lessons holy: + Fame, it told thee, was but--show; + Worldly wisdom--folly. + This my song was meant to say, + Hope and trust should guide our way, + Maid! there ’s no mistaking: + This the genuine moral seems, + Miseries are only dreams. + Joy--is the awaking. + + O my Cath’rine! never dwell + On that dream of gloom: + Heaven! build up her citadel, + There may grief ne’er come, + Not a cloud her joy o’ershade, + Not a joy decay; + Holy is that gentle maid + As the light of day. + Ne’er be it obscured by woe, + Let her days of comfort flow + Like a forest river! + And let joy, with smiles serene, + Be as it hath ever been, + Her bright guide for ever! + + --From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part + II. + + [3] Changed by Sir John Bowring in the poem to Catherine. + + + THE MINSTREL IN THE RUSSIAN CAMP + + Now silence wraps the battlefield! + The tents with lights are gleaming; + And lo! the bright moon’s silver shield + In the calm heaven is beaming. + Fill, fill the glass of rapture yet + In unity full-hearted; + In wine the bloody strife forget, + The grief for the departed! + The glasses’ ruby stream to drain + Is glory’s pride and pleasure-- + Wine! conqueror thou of care and pain, + Thou art the hero’s treasure. + + Now to the warriors of old time, + The strong in fight and glory! + These warriors and their deeds sublime + Are lost in distant story! + The grave hath gathered up their dust, + Their homes,--the storm hath razed them; + Their helmets are devoured by rust, + And silent those who praised them: + But in their children live their fires, + We tread the land that bore them, + And see the shadows of our sires + With all their triumphs o’er them. + + Oh, come! in all your brightness, come, + And smile complacent, near us; + Look from your high and misty home, + Encourage us and hear us. + O Svyatosláv! time’s injured son, + Thy path an eagle’s flying: + “There is no shame in dying--On! + There is no shame in dying!” + And Donskóy, thou! courageous man, + Midst heathen foes we find thee; + Destruction leading in thy van, + And naught but death behind thee. + + Thou, Peter! thou, the hero’s crown, + “Poltáva!” is repeated: + Thy foes have thrown their sabres down, + Thee, all the world has greeted. + What? Robbers, would you build your throne + Upon our cities’ ruin? + Thy horse and rider fell--begone! + For vengeance is pursuing. + Go hide thee in thy native woods, + There by ambition smother; + Fate drives thee to their solitudes, + Yes! thou, the rebel’s brother. + + Who is that white-haired hero, who + That northern more than Roman? + His penetrating glance looks through + The phalanx of the foeman; + From yonder clouds what shadowy rows + Are tow’rds his footsteps turning? + The spirits of the Alpine snows + Are wailing loud and mourning. + Franks and Sarmatians, at his view, + Death’s icy paleness borrow; + Well they may fear him, well may rue,-- + It is the great Suvórov! + + Hail, sons of ages long gone by! + Your glories are recorded; + We follow you to victory, + Like you to be rewarded. + We see your ranks,--they lead us on,-- + The foe retreats before us; + We scatter death, as ye have done, + While ye are smiling o’er us. + Drawn sword, and flowing glass, elate + We look to our Creator! + “And death for death, and hate for hate, + And curses on the traitor.” + + This glass then to our country’s joys, + Ne’er may our hearts feel colder; + The scenes of mirth while we were boys, + Of love, when we grew older! + Our country’s plains, our country’s sky, + The streams that flow beneath it; + The memories of infancy, + And all the thoughts that wreathe it + With joyous hopes and visions blest,-- + Dear shrine of our affection, + How glows our heart, how beats our breast, + When beams the recollection! + + That is our country, there our home, + There wife and babes attend us; + And oft their prayers towards us roam, + And oft to Heaven commend us! + There dwell our plighted, chosen ones; + How bright their memory flashes! + Our monarchs’ dust, our monarchs’ thrones, + And there our fathers’ ashes. + For them we fight, for them we rove, + For them have all forsaken; + And may our land’s undying love + In our sons’ breasts awaken! + + Now to the Tsar that rules the Russ, + And be his sceptre glorious; + His throne an altar is to us,-- + We swear to be victorious. + The oath is heard,--’t is stamped in blood,-- + ’T is sworn,--there ’s no returning; + Our swords shall make our promise good, + Our hearts with love are burning. + Each Russ a son of victory, + To duty’s ranks we throng us; + Let every craven coward fly, + For fear was ne’er among us. + + ──────────────────────────────────── + + One glass to vengeance! In the fray + “Heaven for the right!” our voices, + And “death or victory!” proudly say; + And victory’s self rejoices. + Oh, count not on your numbers, foe! + In vain ye boast your numbers; + Our march is like the torrent’s flow, + Which never, never slumbers. + We have no treasures, but we bring + Our arrows and our lances, + And round us desolation fling, + And death is in our glances. + + The Robber! he had spread his power + Around our Moskvá’s borders; + And from our Kremlin’s sacred tower + He issued forth his orders. + “I trample on the base-born clay, + Which folly’s pride assembles, + And prince and subject both obey.” + Insulting one!--he trembles. + For Vengeance wakes her from her rest, + And arms her with her torches, + Heaves ruin on the tyrant’s breast, + And drives him from our porches. + + Now bring thy slavish princes, now, + To our ice-girded nation; + And lead them o’er our paths of snow + To horror and starvation. + Come, Winter! rouse thee from thy bed, + And close our country’s portals. + Oh, see! he strews the land with dead, + With piles of frozen mortals. + Now, Robber! look what thou hast done; + Come, for the strife prepare thee! + The land we fight on is our own,-- + God’s vengeance, wretch, is near thee! + + --From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part + II. + + + + + Iván Ivánovich Kozlóv. (1779-1840.) + + + After having served for some time in the army, Kozlóv in 1798 entered + the Civil Service, living in Moscow and later in St. Petersburg. In + 1818 he was struck by paralysis, which deprived him of the use of his + legs, and three years later he became totally blind. Though he had + long been on friendly terms with Zhukóvski, he never thought of + devoting himself to literature. But the calamity that had overtaken + him compelled him to concentrate himself, and the result was the + evolution of his poetical genius. He had learned French and Italian + before, and, though blind, acquired the German and English languages + so perfectly that he could recite by heart whole pages from the great + writers, whom he also translated into Russian. His first poetical + efforts were some verses in praise of Zhukóvski and Byron, but he + gained his great reputation by his _The Black Monk_, written in 1824, + which enjoyed the same popularity among the sentimental souls of the + twenties that _Poor Líza_ (see p. 27) had had in the beginning of the + century. This was soon followed by _Princess Natálya Borísovna + Dolgorúki_ (see vol. i., p. 233) and a large number of minor poems + that are distinguished for their elegiac and deep religious tone. + + In W. D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_, Philadelphia, 1841, is + given his _Solitude_; T. B. Shaw translated his _Kíev_ in Blackwood’s + Edinburgh Magazine, 1844; in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_ are given + _The Village Orphan_, _The Wreck_, _The Dream of the Betrothed_, and + _Chernetz (The Black Monk)_; in the Library of the World’s Best + Literature is N. H. Dole’s translation of _The Vesper Bells_. + + + SOLITUDE + + Upon a hill, which rears itself midst plains extending wide, + Fair flourishes a lofty oak in beauty’s blooming pride; + This lofty oak in solitude its branches wide expands, + All lonesome on the cheerless height like sentinel it stands. + Whom can it lend its friendly shade, should Sol with fervour glow? + And who can shelter it from harm, should tempests rudely blow? + No bushes green, entwining close, here deck the neighbouring ground, + No tufted pines beside it grow, no osiers thrive around. + Sad e’en to trees their cheerless fate in solitude if grown, + And bitter, bitter is the lot for youth to live alone! + Though gold and silver much is his, how vain the selfish pride! + Though crowned with glory’s laurelled wreath, with whom that crown + divide? + When I with an acquaintance meet he scarce a bow affords, + And beauties, half saluting me, but grant some transient words. + On some I look myself with dread, whilst others from me fly, + But sadder still the uncherished soul when Fate’s dark hour draws nigh; + Oh! where my aching heart relieve when griefs assail me sore? + My friend, who sleeps in the cold earth, comes to my aid no more! + No relatives, alas! of mine in this strange clime appear, + No wife imparts love’s fond caress, sweet smile, or pitying tear; + No father feels joy’s thrilling throb, as he our transport sees; + No gay and sportive little ones come clambering on my knees;-- + Take back all honours, wealth and fame, the heart they cannot move, + And give instead the smiles of friends, the tender look of love! + + --From W. D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_. + + + KÍEV + + O Kíev! where religion ever seemeth + To light existence in our native land; + Where o’er Pechérski’s dome the bright cross gleameth, + Like some fair star, that still in heaven doth stand; + Where, like a golden sheet, around thee streameth + Thy plain, and meads that far away expand; + And by thy hoary well, with ceaseless motion, + Old Dnieper’s foaming swell sweeps on to ocean. + + How oft to thee in spirit have I panted, + O holy city, country of my heart! + How oft, in vision, have I gazed enchanted + On thy fair towers,--a sainted thing thou art!-- + By Lávra’s[4] walls or Dnieper’s wave, nor wanted + A spell to draw me from this life apart; + In thee my country I behold, victorious, + Holy and beautiful, and great and glorious. + + The moon her soft ray on Pechérski poureth, + Its domes are shining in the river’s wave; + The soul the spirit of the past adoreth, + Where sleeps beneath thee many a holy grave: + Vladímir’s shade above thee calmly soareth, + Thy towers speak of the sainted and the brave; + Afar I gaze, and all in dreamy splendour + Breathes of the past,--a spell sublime and tender. + + There fought the warriors in the field of glory, + Strong in the faith, against their country’s foe; + And many a royal flower yon palace hoary, + In virgin loveliness, hath seen to blow. + And Boyán sang to them the noble story, + And secret rapture in their breast did glow; + Hark! midnight sounds,--that brazen voice is dying,-- + A day to meet the vanished day is flying. + + Where are the valiant?--the resistless lances,-- + The brands that were as lightning when they waved? + Where are the beautiful, whose sunny glances + Our fathers, with such potency, enslaved? + Where is the bard, whose song no more entrances? + Ah! that deep bell hath answered what I craved: + And thou alone, by these grey walls, O river! + Murmurest, Dnieper, still, and flow’st for ever. + + --Transl. by T. B. Shaw, in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, 1844 + (vol. lv). + + [4] Name of certain monasteries. + + + FROM “THE BLACK MONK” + + I.--THE MONASTERY + +Beyond Kíev, where the broad Dnieper boils and booms between steep +banks, near a grove, upon a high hill, stands the hermits’ abode. Around +it is a crenelated wall, with four towers in the corners, and in the +midst,--the temple of the Lord with gilded cupolas. A row of cells, a +dark corridor, a chapel at the holy gates, with a miracle-working image, +and nearby a spring of cool water, whose medicinal stream bubbles under +the shade of a century linden tree. + +The evening darkness is in the misty field; the twilight is dimming in +the heavens; the song is not heard in the meadows; the flocks are not +seen in the vales. The horn will not be blown in the forest,--no one +will come; only at times the bell tinkles in the distance upon the +highway; no fires are to be seen upon the fishermen’s boats on the +Dnieper. The midnight moon has risen, and the bright stars are shining; +the clearings, the woods, the waters are asleep. The fateful hour has +struck upon the tower,--the hermitage is merged in sleep,--and all +around is peace and quiet. + + II.--THE CONFESSION OF THE BLACK MONK + +“I left my deserted country. Alone, in despair, in tears, I wandered +around with my orphaned soul in distant defiles and woods. Gloomy clefts +and mountains heard my groan, my wail, my plaints with terror, for seven +years. Sullen, melancholy, wild, I pined away, dreaming an old dream, +and sobbed for what is not. The shades of night, the mountain torrent, +the whistling of the storm and the howl of the wind secretly united with +my murky thought, with my unquenchable yearning. And sorrow was a +delight, a sacred relic of former days; it seemed to me that through my +suffering I did not altogether part from it. + +“Where the heart loves, where it suffers,--there is also our merciful +God; He gives the cross, and He also sends us hope with the cross. In +these seven hard, stormy years there has flashed for me a consoling +light. Once, at evening tide, I sat gloomy near the river; the +star-flaming vault of heaven, the quiet glimmer of the moon, the +rustling of the leaves, the plashing of the waves silvered by the moon, +involuntarily held my soul captive. Everything attracted me by its +mysterious beauty to a world of bliss. + +“My crushed spirit awoke: ‘Creator of all! My babe with my unforgettable +mate dwell in Thy holy abode, and, perchance, I shall be with them, and +they there for ever mine!’ Love understands miracles: my heart trembled +hopefully in some mysterious expectation. I lifted my eyes to the skies, +dared to implore them with tears,--and it seemed to me that for an +answer was given me that calm ocean with its imperishable stars. Since +then, my father, have I found consolation in my misery itself, and I +have hoped by my heavy cross to earn my union with her. Though still, at +times, I shed tears, yet hope assuages them, and quiet grief has taken +place of bitter sorrow. Flaming with faith, I have forgotten my +misfortune and the villain: she with her babe in heaven appeared to my +heart in dreams of paradise. My soul rose to her, and my mind was full +of this: I wished to be as pure as she, and I gladly bid life farewell. +But I wanted to die in my native home. I began to pine away in mountains +of other lands. I wanted to cast my last glance upon our woods and our +dales, to see the country which was full of her, and our village house, +and the garden, and the blue waves of the Dnieper, and the church upon +the mound where in the shade of the birches sleeps their dust, and the +glowing evening sky over their quiet grave. + +“Ah, what happened to my soul when suddenly, in all its sacred beauty, +before me lay the landscape of my native Kíev fields! As before they +were green, the waves of the Dnieper boomed as formerly, the same forest +lay dim in the distance, the same songs were sung in the fields, and +everything was the same in my native land, but she alone was not there. +Everywhere familiar valleys, brooks, mounds, and plains, in an +enchanting quiet, appeared to me on all sides, and brought back my +brighter years; but with a poisoned soul, a stranger in my own land, I +greeted them with tears and disconsolate melancholy. + +“I walked. The day was inclining to the evening, and suddenly a rustic +temple of the Lord stood before my frightened eyes. Beside myself, I +approached the grave where my son, my wife,--my whole life lay buried. I +barely touched the ground with my feet, as if fearing to disturb their +eternal slumber. I repressed a deep groan within my breast, that their +rest be not broken. My saddened spirit dared not give vent to my +impassioned agitation. It seemed to me that upon their grave I breathed +a sacred air. A wondrous feeling came over me, and with an unearthly +hope I softly bent my knees, and prayed, and wept, and loved.” + + + + + Konstantín Nikoláevich Bátyushkov. (1787-1855.) + + + Bátyushkov received his education in the boarding-schools of St. + Petersburg, from which he took away a good knowledge of French, + German, and Italian, and little else, especially since all his + schooling ended with his sixteenth year. He was then ushered into the + circle of literary men by a relative of his, M. N. Muravév (see vol. + i. p. 395), who also interested him in the ancient classics, among + whom Bátyushkov admired most and imitated Horace and Tibullus. In 1806 + he was seized by the prevailing patriotic enthusiasm, after the + disaster of Austerlitz, and joined the army. He was seriously wounded, + but in 1813 he again took part in the campaign against Napoleon. + During his stay in Germany he became intimately acquainted with the + German literature, which he began to prefer to the French and Latin. + He returned to Russia over England and Sweden. In 1818 he received a + diplomatic post at Naples, which gave him an opportunity of making + himself familiar with the country of his beloved author, Tasso. He + soon returned home, where he was up to his death, for a period of + thirty-three years, lost to Russian letters, having, like his mother + before him, become hopelessly insane. No other poet had given such + promise as Bátyushkov, and even Púshkin regarded him as his teacher. + His fame rests mainly on his _Dying Tasso_ and _The Friend’s Shadow_, + the Anacreontic character of the other poems and the absence of a + Russian motive having otherwise almost obliterated his fame. + + In Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part I., there + is a translation of his _To My Penates_, and in Part II., _To F. F. + Kokoshkin_, _The Farewell_, _The Friend’s Shadow_, _Love in a Boat_, + _The Prisoner_, _To the Rhine_. What purports to be a translation of + his _Dying Tasso_ is given in The Foreign Quarterly Review, 1832. + + + THE FRIEND’S SHADOW + + From Albion’s misty isle across the waves I sped me: + It looked as if interred beneath a leaden sea, + And gathering round our bark the halcyon’s music led me, + While all the crew rejoiced in their sweet melody. + The dancing surge, the evening breezes falling, + And through the sails and shrouds those breezes whistling thrill, + And to the watch the active helmsman calling, + The watch, who, midst the roar, sleeps tranquilly and still. + All seemed to rock itself to gentle thought; + Like an enchanted one, I, from the mast, looked forth, + And through the night and through the mist I sought, + I sought the star beloved of my domestic north. + Then into memory melted every feeling,-- + My soul had sanctified my home of joy and peace, + And the sea raging, and the zephyrs gently stealing, + Covered my eyelids o’er with self-forgetfulness. + Then dreams with other dreams were blended, + And lo!--there stood, was it a dream?--the form + Of that dear friend who his career had ended + Nobly, amidst the thundering battle storm. + He stood upon the mist, and smiled,--his face, + Fresh as the morn and bloodless, shining + Like the young spring in gaiety and grace, + Even as an angel from high heaven declining:-- + “Comrade of better time! and is it thou? + And is it thou?” I cried, “thou hero bright! + Did I not in the fury of the fight + Attend thee, and when thou hadst fallen below + Make thy new grave,--and on a neighbouring tree + Write with my sword thy feats of bravery, + And followed thy cold ashes to their bed, + And hallowed it with prayers, and with tears waterèd? + Speak, unforgotten one, speak! Was it a deceit? + Is all that ’s past a dream, a cheating dream? + A dream that corpse, a dream that grave, that sheet + Wrapt round thee,--were they not? did they but seem? + Oh, but one word! Let that tongue’s melody + Yet sweetly fall on my transported ear: + O unforgotten one! Stretch out to me + Thy old right hand of friendship, stretch it here!” + I sprung towards him,--Oh! the mists had dimmed my eye,-- + He vanished like a shade, a lock of airy smoke,-- + Dispersed in the wide azure of the sky, + And I, arousing from my dream, awoke. + Beneath the wing of stillness all was sleeping; + The very winds, the very waves at rest; + And scarce a breath upon the sea was creeping; + The pale moon swam along upon the white cloud’s breast. + But I was troubled, peace had left my soul,-- + I stretched my hands tow’rds him, whom I no more could see,-- + I called on him, whom I could not control,-- + On thee, beloved one! best of friends, on thee! + + --From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part + II. + + + THE DYING TASSO + +What solemnity does ancient Rome prepare? Whither rush the nation’s +noisy waves? For whom these fragrant fumes of incense and of myrrh, and +everywhere the vases full of odorous herbs? Wherefore above the streets +of the universal city, from the Tiber’s banks up to the Capitol, midst +flowers and laurels, are fluttering costly carpets and the purple? + +Wherefore this noise? Wherefore the timbrel’s sound and thunder? Is it +of gladness or of victory the herald? Why with the standard gains the +house of prayer the mitred apostolic vicar? For whom this glittering +crown he holds,--a priceless gift of grateful Rome? For whom this +triumph? For thee, immortal singer, for thee this gift, O singer of +“Jerusalem.” + +The din of joy has reached the cell where in death agony Torquato lies, +where o’er the sufferer’s immortal head is borne the spirit of wingèd +death. Neither tears of friendship, nor the prayers of the monks, nor +honours’ tardy due,--these will not curb indomitable fate that spares +not even the great. Half-shattered, he sees the threatening hour, hails +it with joy, and,--alluring swan!--bids life good-bye and utters these +last words: + +“My friends, let me behold Rome the magnificent, where an untimely grave +awaits the poet, that my eyes may see your hills and smoke, O ancient +hearths of the Quirites! O sacred ground of miracles and heroes! O +glorious ruins and O glorious dust! Azure and purple of cloudless skies, +you poplars, ancient olives, and thou, eternal Tiber, wellspring of all +the nations, grave of the bones of the world’s citizens,--you, you I +greet within these sombre walls, where I lie doomed to an untimely end! + +“’T is done! I stand o’er the abyss of destiny, shall not applauded +reach the Capitol, and laurels of fame upon my feeble head will not +assuage the singer’s bitter fate. From earliest youth a shuttlecock of +men, I was an exile from my very childhood; a poor wanderer under the +voluptuous heaven of my Italy, I have experienced all vicissitudes of +fate. Where was my bark not borne by the waves? Where found it rest? +Where wet I not my daily bread with tears of grief? Sorrento! cradle of +my luckless days, where in the night, like terrified Ascanius, I was +bereft by destiny of my mother, of her soft embraces and +caresses,--rememberest thou how many tears I shed while still a child? +Alas! since then, a prey of evil fate, all sorrows I have learned, all +misery of existence. The depths by Fortune furrowed were cleft below me, +and the thunder never silenced. Driven from vill to vill, from land to +land, I sought in vain a refuge upon earth: its unrelenting finger saw I +everywhere, and everywhere its lightnings struck the bard! Neither in +the humble ploughman’s hut, nor under cover of Alfonso’s palace, nor in +the quiet of the lowliest shelter, nor forest tangle, nor mountains, was +my head secure, the exile’s head, by shame and fame oppressed, and from +the cradle a victim of the goddess of the doom. + +“Friends, what wrings so terribly my breast? What gnaws my heart, and +keeps it in a flutter? Whence have I come? What awful journey have I +made? What glimmers there behind me in the dark? +Ferrara----furies----and the snake of envy! Whither, whither, murderers +of genius? I ’m in the haven; ’t is Rome. Here are my family, my +brothers! Here are their tears and sweet caresses,--and Virgil’s crown +here in the Capitol! + +“Yes, I have done Apollo’s bidding: his zealous priest from earliest +youth, I sang, midst lightnings, under raging skies, the fame and +majesty of bygone days. My soul, though fettered, never changed; the +rapture of the sweet-voiced Muses never died in me, and through my +sufferings my genius grew strong. It dwelt in the land of miracles, O +Sion, by thy walls, on Jordan’s flowery banks; and it communed with +thee, rebellious Cedron, and thee, peaceful retreats of Lebanon! ’T is +there the heroes of the ancient days rose from the dead, in the majesty +and glow of their grim glory. It beheld thee, Godfrey, ruler, lord of +kings, majestic, calm, while arrows whizzed; and thee, youthful Rinaldo, +fervid like Achilles and a happy victor in love and war. It saw thee +flying o’er the corpses of the foeman’s host, like fire, like death, +like the destroying angel,--and Tartarus vanquished by the gleaming +cross! + +“O models of unheard-of valour! O holy triumph and victory of the pure +faith of our ancestors now long asleep! Torquato extricated you from the +abyss of time: he sang,--and you will never be forgotten; he sang: to +him a wreath of immortality has been decreed, wound by the hands of +Muses and of Glory. Too late: I stand o’er the abyss of destiny, shall +not applauded reach the Capitol, and laurels of fame upon my feeble head +will not assuage the singer’s bitter fate!” + +He stopped. A sombre light glowed in his eyes, the final ray of genius +before its death; it seemed, the dying wished to snatch one day of +triumph from the Parcæ; his eyes sought eagerly the Capitolian walls; he +tried his best to raise himself but lay, exhausted from the dreadful +torment of his agony, immovable upon his bed. Day’s luminary was gliding +to the west, and merged in blood-red glow; the hour of death was +near----the sufferer’s gloomy brow was now agleam with its last light. +Refreshed by the evening coolness, he raised his right hand to the +hearkening heavens, like a righteous man, with hope and joy: + +“See,” he addressed his sobbing friends, “the royal luminary flaming in +the west! ’T is he, ’t is he who calls me to the cloudless lands where +glows the eternal light----. The angel stands before me to guide me on; +he shades me with his azure pinions----. Give me Love’s token, this +mysterious cross----. Pray in hope and tears----all earthly things are +vanishing----and glory and the crown----the sublime creations of the +Arts and Muses: all is there eternal as the Lord, the Giver of the crown +of immortal glory! There is all the great my spirit fed upon, and I did +from my cradle breathe. O brothers, friends! weep not o’er me: your +friend has reached at last the longed-for goal. He’ll pass away in peace +and, strong in faith, will not perceive his cruel end: there, there----. +O bliss! ’midst virtuous women and ’midst angels Eleanor will meet him!” + +And with the name of love the godly passed away; his friends sobbed +speechless o’er him. Daylight softly died away----the bell’s voice +spread the melancholy news down to the streets: “Dead is our Torquato!” +Rome cried in tears: “Dead is the bard who has deserved a better +fate!”---- The dawn perceived a sombre smoke of torches, and in mourning +shrouded was the Capitol. + + + + + Fédor Nikoláevich Glínka. (1788-1880.) + + + Glínka was born in the Government of Smolénsk and was educated in the + First Cadet Corps, which he left in 1803 as lieutenant. He took part + in the campaign of the Russian army against Napoleon in the Austrian + possessions, serving as adjutant under Milorádovich. He described his + experience in his _Letters of a Russian Officer_, which is a + remarkable production for a young man of nineteen. After his return he + devoted himself to literature, both prose and poetry. His poems + attracted much attention on account of their sincerity and the + harmoniousness of their verses. In 1869 he published a collection of + _Spiritual Songs_. + + In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_ are given _The Appearance of the + Unknown_, _The Search for God_, and _Moscow_. N. H. Dole has + translated his _Moscow_ (publication unascertainable). + + + MOSCOW + + Wondrous city, ancient city, + Thou enfoldest in thy walls + Villages and smiling suburbs, + Churches, palaces and halls. + + Thou art girt by grassy meadows, + Gay with gardens, rich in flowers; + Seven the hills are which thou crownest + With thy temples, with thy towers. + + Thou unfoldest like a parchment + Written by a giant hand, + And beside thy little river + Thou art glorious now and grand. + + Many are thine ancient churches + Towering like the northern pine; + Where can eye see streets so noble, + Mother Moscow, as are thine? + + Capture Moscow’s mighty Kreml? + Who on earth would boast the power? + Who could rob the golden bonnet + From the slender Iván tower? + + Who could ever swing the Tsar-bell, + Or the Tsar-gun overthrow? + Reverence at the sacred gateway + Who could ever fail to show? + + In thine awful hour of peril, + When thy haughty neck was bent, + All thy children, men of Russia, + Felt with thee the punishment. + + White-walled city, thou wast chastened + Like a martyr in the fire; + And thy river, boiling, hastened + Onward to escape the pyre. + + Once a captive and dishonoured, + In thine embers thou didst lie! + Now arisen from thine ashes + Changeless, lift thy head on high! + + Flourish through the countless ages, + Moscow! many-towered town. + Thou art central heart of Russia, + Russia’s glory, Russia’s crown! + + --Transl. by N. H. Dole (publication not ascertainable). + + + THE SEARCH FOR GOD + + The heavens grow dark before mine eyes, + The earth gives out a groaning sound; + The stormy blasts in fury rise, + And all obstructions quick confound; + They drive apart hills with their foot, + Huge trees they pluck up by the root: + I call on God with loudest tone,-- + God is not in the tempest known. + + As I behold, the meadows fair + Are breaking into mound and vale; + The earth is shaking everywhere, + The rocks roll down the hills like hail; + Dense clouds of smoke the sight appall, + With trembling voice on God I call,-- + But in the earthquake’s fearful round + His holy footsteps are not found. + + On novel wonders still I gaze; + The vaults of heaven with lightning blaze, + The flames burst forth on every side, + And onwards rush,--a raging tide,-- + Stirring the mind with direst fear,-- + But not in fire does God appear. + + Fair peace succeeds: the perfect calm + My prescient spirit fills with balm; + Like the young morn with glimmering light, + So burns with haze of silver bright + The presence pure of God: + The soul, responsive to the strain, + Breathes with unearthly life again; + Sweet stillness settles on the scene, + And, though deep distance intervene, + God’s voice is heard abroad. + + --From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_. + + + + + Prince Petr Andréevich Vyázemski. (1792-1878.) + + + Prince Vyázemski was one of the very few literary men in Russia whose + career began before that of Púshkin and who were still active at a + time when Tolstóy and Dostoévski had established their reputations. + His father, dying, left him in charge of Karamzín, to whom he was + related by marriage. Through him, Prince Vyázemski was early brought + in contact with the literary circle, meeting there on a friendly + footing Zhukóvski, Bátyushkov, and Púshkin. He took part in the + campaign of 1812, and at Borodinó two horses were shot under him. He + later occupied various posts, and was made Associate Minister of + Public Instruction and a Senator in 1855. His literary works have + lately been collected in twelve large volumes, and yet, in spite of + his great talent as a satirist, critic, and lyricist, he has fallen + into oblivion. The cause of this is that he persevered in the + pseudo-classic, sentimental attitude of the school of Karamzín, while + the Romantic spirit of Púshkin’s time touched him but lightly, and the + realism of the period after the forties entrenched him only more in + his old habits and confirmed him in his hostility to everything that + departed from the code of Karamzín. + + Sir John Bowring gives in Part II. of the _Specimens of the Russian + Poets_ translations of his _To My Three Absent Friends_, _To N. N._, + and _Fragment_; John Pollen, in the _Rhymes from the Russian_, has + translated his _Troika_. An epigram of his is given by V. E. Marsden + in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 9. + + + THE SAMOVÁR + +’T is pleasant, having strayed abroad, to find a familiar picture of +native customs, homelike bread-and-salt, a hospitable roof, a retreat, a +sacred retreat of your country’s Lares for the soul that is crusted by +the ice in the chill sea of the world, where to a native question there +is no native answer; where life is but an empty exchange of ceremonial +words; where you are only a stranger and only Monsieur N. ’T is pleasant +to warm yourself in a quiet haven and with confidence to look into +friends’ faces, eagerly to listen to the discourse in which there is +something familiar to the soul and a message from bygone days. + +A wanderer’s days are like unto displaced pages: a teasing, malicious +spirit disrupts them,--there is no connection: each day you live anew, +yet life is only good through traditions of love, oneness of beliefs and +feelings, concord of impressions, and a gentle antiqueness of customary +relations. Our mind is cosmopolitan, but our heart home-bound: the mind +pleases itself in ever treading new paths, and has all its joys in the +future; but the heart grows young with old dreams, the heart lives on +old habits and blooms more gladly in the shadow of the past. Oh, be +blessed, roof of light and refuge, where, like a relative, the guest of +the moment has been received, where carelessly he could unfold his +heart, and for a time deceive his orphanhood! Where consciously and +sympathetically he partook of the dear family’s harmony and happiness, +and saw the young joys of the parents’ souls blooming in a cloudless +calm----. + +But we are drawn even by another mysterious power to that familiar +retreat where, with usual kindness, the loving family waits for us at +the table. I love that hour,--almost the best of the day,--a poetic hour +’midst the prose of rude days, a sincere hour of life, a joyous interval +’twixt the labour of the day and the deep sleep of the night. All +accounts are cast,--in the balance we live: there are no cares of life, +nay, have not been; _to-day_ has vanished from your shoulders, +_to-morrow_ is not yet. Hour of friendly discourse at the tea table! +Honour and praise to the young hostess! Right Orthodoxly, not in German +fashion, not thin like water or childish drink, but redolent with +Russia, juicy and thick, the fragrant tea flows in an amber stream. + +Very well! But I find one thing lacking: no, the stamp of Russian life +is not complete! Where is the native samovár, our family’s hearth, our +family altar, ark of domestic joys? In it boil, from it flow, the +traditions of all our days; in it live the recollections of Russian +antiquity; it alone has survived from the torso of former years,--the +inextinguishable grandfather has passed to the grandchildren. It is the +Russian rococo, formless, awkward, but inwardly good, though unsightly +from without; it preserves better the heat, and while it croons, the +discourse boils like its steaming liquid. + +How many secret chapters of daily romances, life-stirring, heartfelt +romances that are not in books,--let one write as sweetly as one +may,--how many pure dreams of maidens’ souls and gentle quarrels of +love, and gentle peace-making, and quiet joys, and softly riotous joys +have stealthily taken fire in its flame and have invisibly been carried +in its cloud of steam! Wherever there are domestic Penates, from gilded +palaces to humble huts, wherever there is the brass samovár, an +inheritance of the orphan, the widow’s last wealth, and luxury of +poverty,--everywhere in holy and Orthodox Russia it is the chief +participator at family reunions. One cannot be born into the world, nor +enter into matrimony, nor will friends say “welcome” or “good-bye,” but +that, the end and beginning of all everyday affairs, the boiling +samovár, the domestic leader of the choir, raises its voice and calls +the family together. + +The poet has said, and his verse we understand: “Our country’s smoke is +sweet and pleasant to us!” Was not our great poet--there can be no doubt +about it--then inspired by the samovár? Derzhávin’s shades, following +me, turn to you with the earnest request, to his honour and the honour +of the Orthodox country, to throw away the teapot and introduce the +samovár. + + + TO MY THREE ABSENT FRIENDS + + My brothers! whither scattered now? + What fate, what cruel fate could sever + Hands, souls, fast-bound, divided never? + But ye are fled, and fled for ever, + And I am left alone with woe! + + The sigh I heave in silence here, + The careless zephyr bears away; + ’T is lost in twilight’s darkening ray, + ’T is veiled in night,--it fades in day,-- + It ne’er will reach your listening ear. + + Perchance e’en now, while round me roll + Dark storms and misty clouds, e’en now, + Pain’s icy sweat upon his brow, + One calls upon his friend, and oh! + Death’s wintry curtain wraps his soul. + + Then sleep in peace, thou spirit blest! + My spirit seems to cling to thee; + From sorrow to felicity + Wafted, thy bark has passed the sea + Of storms, in joy’s calm port to rest. + + How long shall absence’ misery last? + When, when shall dawn the hour of meeting? + Shall ne’er again the blessed greeting + Of social bliss return?--How fleeting + Its rapture,--’t is for ever past! + + Cold, cold,--I feel my heart; delight + Can kindle ne’er its fire again; + My tears flow forth, they flow in vain; + My smiles,--no light those smiles retain; + For what awaked it sinks in night. + + Time was, how blessèd to recall + That time, when our hands garlanded + The fairest wreaths of roses red, + And in youth’s spring the chorus led + To heaven, the source, the end of all. + + Time was, but like a dream it fled! + The hymn,--’t is now a funeral dirge; + The garland,--’t is affliction’s scourge; + The dance,--its memories now emerge + Like ghosts that wander midst the dead. + + And now the plaint ascends! Appear, + Appear, delightful hours, anew! + Spirit of youth, so fond, so true, + Awake! Suns, once so bright, so few, + Shine,--let illusion’s mockery cheer! + + But see! the darkness creeps away,-- + The clouds disperse, the storm is gone,-- + Thy smile returns not, blessèd one! + The mountains see the morning dawn, + To me, alas! there dawns no day. + + --From Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part + II. + + + DEATH REAPS THE HARVEST OF LIFE + +Death reaps the harvest of life, and every day and every hour asks for a +new prey of life, and sternly tears us asunder. + +How many fair names he has already snatched away from the living, and +how many voiceless lyres hang on young cypresses! + +How many companions are no more, how many younger ones have passed, +whose morning dawned when the sultry midday burnt us! + +But we have remained, have survived that fateful carnage; but we are +impoverished after the death of our near ones, and no longer strive for +life as for a conflict. + +Sadly finishing our days, we are waiting for the belated relief,--slowly +dying from day to day, until we shall be no more. + +Sons of another generation, we are a last year’s flower in the new: the +impressions of the living are foreign to us, and they have no sympathy +for ours. + +They care not for that which we love, and their passions do not agitate +us! They were not there where we have been, and not for us is where they +shall be! + +Our world is an empty fane to them, our past is but a myth, and that +which for us are hallowed ashes, to them is but mute dust. + +Yes! We are like ruins, and we stand on the crossroad of the living, +like mortuary monuments amidst the habitations of men! + + + + + Kondráti Fédorovich Rylyéev. (1796-1826.) + + + Rylyéev was at the early age of six inscribed by his mother in the + Cadet Corps, in order to remove him from the influence of his brutal + father. In 1814 he graduated as lieutenant, and took part in the + expedition that entered Paris. Upon his return, he was stationed in + the Governments of Minsk and Vorónezh; he later settled in St. + Petersburg, where he distinguished himself for his official integrity + as member of the Criminal Court and as Manager of the Russo-American + Company. He began to write verses as a boy, and his ardent + republicanism, coupled with a not less fervent patriotism, led him to + an idealisation of ancient Russian heroes. He did this in the + prevailing Romantic spirit, being urged on in his endeavours by his + mentor and friend, Púshkin. Of his historical ballads the best are + _Iván Susánin_ and _Voynaróvski_; they all created an outburst of + patriotic enthusiasm upon their appearance. Of his other poems the + most perfect are _The Citizen_ and _Civil Valour_. Rylyéev took an + active part in the plot of the Decembrists, was at once arrested, and + later publicly executed. His poems were prohibited in Russia until a + comparatively recent time. + + An extract from _Voynaróvski_ was translated in the Foreign Quarterly + Review, vol. ix., 1832; a large number of his poems, containing the + whole of _Voynaróvski_, are given in _The Poems of K. F. Relaieff_, + translated from the Russian by T. Hart-Davies, London (new and + enlarged edition, 1887); C. T. Wilson has translated in _Russian + Lyrics_ his _Iván Susánin_, _Svyatopólk_, and _Prayer Before Death_. + In Free Russia, vol. xii., No. 2, _The Citizen_ is translated by + Elizabeth Gibson. + + + FROM “VOYNARÓVSKI” + + But whose that wandering form that ’s seen + Athwart the morning fog to creep + From out yon hut, and on the steep + Beneath which Lena’s waters sweep + Pace with slow step and ’wildered mien? + His arquebus slung at his back, + His short caftan, and cap of black, + Seem to denote him a Cossack + From Dnieper’s shores. Stern is his face, + And full of grief, for cankering thought + Hath furrowed deep that brow, and wrought + The stamp of age on manhood’s grace. + See! to the west his hands extending, + Wild lustre breaking from his eyes, + Homeward his thoughts and wishes sending, + He thus exclaims with tearless sigh: + + “Ye distant fields, that saw my birth, + My death you may not view! + Tombs of my sires! The exile’s bones + Will never rest in you! + In vain the flame of life yet burns,-- + It never more may shine; + In vain my soul the dastard spurns,-- + The dastard’s lot is mine.” + + ──────────────────────────────────── + + Who is that exile? None may tell: + Months, years have passed since first he came + To this his far abode of shame, + Here shunned, and shunning all, to dwell. + Ne’er hath a smile been seen to play + Across that face blanched by despair; + And woe, not age, hath tinged with grey + His unkempt beard and matted hair. + Yet, not a felon deed hath sent + That stranger hither; nor hath brent + The glowing iron his scarred face, + And charactered a slave’s disgrace; + Though ne’er did branded felon show + Such withered look, so wild a brow. + Calmness is there, but ’t is the calm + Of Baykal, ere the tempest rise + To lash its waters to the skies, + Spreading around dismay, alarm; + And, as athwart the midnight gloom + Flickers the lamp beside the tomb, + So gleam with ghastly glare his eyes. + Wandering alone o’er crag, through dell, + He roams each day, and none may dare + To ask his name, his grief, his care: + His frown forbids, that frown ’s a spell. + + ──────────────────────────────────── + + “List, stranger, and with wonder learn + How Fate, unpitying, wayward, stern, + Delights us mortals to oppress. + Beneath this garb uncouth, this dress + So coarse, a slave it scarce befits, + Thus abject here beside thee sits + Mazeppa’s kinsman, friend, and heir.” + + --From Foreign Quarterly Review, 1832. + + + IVÁN SUSÁNIN + + “Where lead’st thou our footsteps? Here naught can be seen,” + Thus shouted the foe to the brave Susanin, + “We sink in the snow-heaps, we stick on the road, + We ne’er shall arrive at thy sheltering abode; + ’T is on purpose thou stray’st from the path, but in vain, + From tricks like this Michael no safety will gain. + + “Though snow-storm may rage, though we wander afar, + Yet death at the Poles’ hands shall come on thy Tsar; + So lead on, or tremble! and shorten our pain,-- + All night with the tempest contending amain, + Through snow-storms and cold thou hast made us to go,-- + But what dark spot is that in the valley below?” + + “’T is the hamlet,” the peasant replied, “see, there stand + The corn-yards, the bridge, and the pales round the land! + With me, on to the door, for the cottage hath been + Long time ready warmed to receive guests within, + So onward, and fear not!” “Well, well I must say + Thou hast led us, my friend, a most cursed long way. + + “A night more infernal I never have seen, + With snow stuck together my eyelids have been; + My coat, pah! you wring it, there ’s not a thread dry.” + Thus grumbled the Pole, and went in with the cry + Of, “Wine, wine! we are cold, we are wet through and through, + Or we ’ll take what our broadswords can wring out of you.” + + And now on the board the rough napkin was spread + With beer and with wine-jugs, and each had his bread + Before him, and soup made of cabbage was there + And Russian wheat-gruel, a right welcome fare. + Without the cold wind at the casemates was spurning, + Within the dim spluttering torches were burning. + + Now midnight had passed, in tranquillity deep + On the benches the Poles lay unheeding asleep, + In the house filled with smoke no one stirring was seen, + Save as sentinel standing the grey Susanin, + In the corner he stood near the ikon, and there + For the young Tsar’s protection he murmured a prayer. + + The silence the tramp of a horse’s hoofs stirred. + Then stole Susanin to the doorway, and heard, + “Is it thou, father dear? to find thee I am here. + Where goest thou? Rough is the journey and drear, + ’T is past midnight, no lull in the tempest hath come, + Sure thou bringest distress to the hearts of thy home.” + + “It was God’s will thy steps to this village to guide, + And now haste to the young Tsar,” the father replied, + “And tell him, tell Michael, to flee and not wait, + For the murderous Poles in their pride and their hate + In secret to murder young Michael intend, + And so doth a fresh woe o’er Moscow impend. + + “Tell him that I, loving my faith and my land, + Will rescue the Tsar from the enemy’s hand; + Tell him that his safety lies only in flight, + That e’en now the assassins are with me this night.” + “O my father, what say’st thou?--a moment refrain,” + Said the youth, “if thou die, what to me will remain? + + “Who then my young sister, my mother will guard?” + “The holy Creator will take them in ward,” + Said brave Susanin, “and they never will fall, + For assistance and shelter He giveth to all + Who are orphans; so hasten, ’t is time now to go, + ’T is for Russia, remember, I lay my life low.” + + With a sob the youth mounted, and swiftly did go, + Like a whistling arrow just loosed from the bow. + Through the clouds the moon shone, the wild snow-storm was o’er, + All hushed were the winds and the tempest’s loud roar, + In the east the dim dawn ’gan to glimmer afar, + And the Poles woke from slumber, those foes of the Tsar. + + “Susanin,” they cried, “cease thy prayers to thy God, + It is time for the start, we should be on the road!” + So leaving the village in shouting array, + Through the forest they followed a winding pathway. + Susanin led them on; and now up rose the light, + And the sun through the branches began to gleam bright. + + Soon his rays were obscured, then again brightly shone, + Then with dim light he glimmered, and vanished anon. + Scarce a rustle was heard from the beech or the oak, + Scarce a sound ’neath the feet from the frost-bound snow broke, + Scarce a crow rose in flight with a flutter and cry, + And the woodpecker pecked at the willow-tree dry. + + In silence the Poles marched on singly in file, + Still farther their grey-haired guide led them the while; + Now high in the heavens the mid-day sun stood, + But darker and drearer grew the thick wood, + Till sudden before them the pathway was lost, + And a hedge of fir-branches thick plaited and crossed + + With pine-boughs right down to the ground interlaced, + On the road like some rough wall before them was placed; + In vain did the scouts bend a listening ear, + All was desert and dead, not a sound could they hear. + “Whither now hast thou led us?” the wearied Poles cried. + “To the place that was needed,” the peasant replied; + + “So slay me, a martyr, for here is my tomb, + But know that I save the young Tsar from his doom; + Ye thought ye had found a base traitor in me, + But no Russ is a traitor, nor ever shall be! + Here each loves his country from youth’s early day, + And his fatherland vilely can never betray.” + + “Wretch!” yelled the fierce Poles with a wild fury torn, + “Thou shalt die ’neath our sabres.” “Your anger I scorn, + For the true Russian heart with content and with trust + Ever joyfully dies in the cause which is just, + Fear of death or of doom from my spirit is far, + All untrembling I die for my country and Tsar.” + + “Die then!” to the hero the angry foe screamed, + O’er his grey head the broadswords keen-whistling gleamed, + “Perish, traitorous villain, thy life’s end is near!” + Susanin wounded fell without shrinking or fear, + By his purer blood’s red stream the pure snow was laved-- + ’T was that life-blood which Michael for Russia had saved. + + --From T. Hart-Davies’s _The Poems of K. F. Relaieff_. + + + + + Aleksándr Sergyéevich Griboyédov. (1795-1829.) + + + The famous author of the drama _Intelligence Comes to Grief_ was the + son of wealthy and cultivated parents, who gave him a brilliant + education. At the age of fifteen he spoke several languages fluently, + and entered the university, from which he graduated two years later + with the degree of Bachelor of Laws. He immediately joined the army, + but did not take part in the foreign campaigns as his regiment was + kept back for home duty. During his leisure hours he translated and + remodelled several French dramas, without displaying any especial + talent for dramatic work. In 1818 he was appointed secretary of the + Russian legation in Persia, and in recognition of his important + services was highly decorated by both the Russian and the Persian + governments. During his wearisome sojourn in Asia he laid the + foundation for his drama _Intelligence Comes to Grief_, and he + finished it in Moscow in 1823. He went with it to St. Petersburg to + stage it, but the censor would not permit even its publication. In the + meanwhile the drama became known throughout Russia in hundreds of + manuscript copies, and it created a sensation unlike any previous work + of literature. In portraying both the servility and corruption of the + older temporising generation, and the carping criticism and would-be + liberalism of the younger set, who in their endeavour to imitate the + West sinned against the national character, Griboyédov incurred the + animosities of all the camps; but by unanimous consent _Intelligence + Comes to Grief_ is the greatest national drama of Russia. Since its + first appearance on the stage in 1831, and its first publication in + 1833, it has had some fifty editions, and is still on the repertoire + of Russian theatres. In 1828 Griboyédov was sent again to Persia, this + time in the capacity of minister, but he was killed soon after his + arrival in Teheran by an infuriated mob. + + _Intelligence Comes to Grief_ was translated into English under its + Russian title, _Gore ot Ouma_, from the Russian of Griboiedoff, by N. + Benardaky, London, Edinburgh, 1857. In The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society, No. 15, is translated his _David_, by F. P. Marchant. + + + FROM “INTELLIGENCE COMES TO GRIEF” + + + ACT II, SCENE 1. FÁMUSOV AND SERVANT + +_Fámusov._ Petrúshka, your caftan is eternally patched up or torn at the +elbow! Fetch down the almanac. Look there; don’t read like a sexton, but +with feeling, with understanding, with rests. Hold on! Write down on the +memorandum, against next week: “I ’m invited to Praskóvya Fédorovna on +Tuesday for trout.” How wonderful this world is made! Your brain is in a +whirl when you philosophise about it! Now you take care of yourself, and +now it is a dinner; you eat three hours, and it will not be digested in +three days. Oh, make a note for the same day--no, no! “For Thursday I am +called to a funeral.” O human race! It has slipped my mind that we all +shall have to get into that box where one can neither stand up nor sit. +Here is an example of a praiseworthy life: the defunct was an honourable +chamberlain, he held a key, and has managed to obtain a key for his son; +he was rich, and married to a rich woman; he married off his children +and grandchildren; he has passed away, and all mention him with regret: +“Maksím Petróvich, peace to his ashes!” Write down, on Thursday, while +you are about it, or may be, on Friday, or Saturday: “I am to be +godfather at the doctor’s widow.” The child is not yet born, but, if my +calculation is right, will be. + + + SCENE 2. FÁMUSOV, SERVANT, AND CHÁTSKI + +_Fámusov._ Ah, Aleksándr Andréich, come nearer, take a seat! + +_Chátski._ You are busy? + +_Fámusov_ (_to the servant_). Go! (_Servant exit._) Yes, I have been +entering various memoranda on business matters, not to forget them by +any chance. + +_Chátski._ You look disconcerted. Tell me, why? Is my arrival untimely? +Has, perchance, some sorrow come to Sophia Pávlovna? There is disquiet +in your face and movements. + +_Fámusov._ What a riddle you have propounded, my friend! Not joyful! You +would not expect me, at my age, to dance a jig. + +_Chátski._ Nobody asks you to. I just asked two words about Sophia +Pávlovna, fearing that she might be ill. + +_Fámusov._ Pshaw, the Lord spare us! Five thousand times he repeats one +and the same thing: now it is, there is no one fairer in the world than +Sophia Pávlovna, now, Sophia Pávlovna is ill. Tell me, have you taken a +liking to her? You have raced through the whole world,--don’t you want +to get married? + +_Chátski._ What is that to you? + +_Fámusov._ It would not be bad to ask of me: I am, so to say, a near +relative of hers; at least, they have not in vain been calling me her +father. + +_Chátski._ Suppose I should sue for her hand, what would you say? + +_Fámusov._ I should say: First, do not make a fool of yourself, do not, +my friend, neglect your estate; but above all, take a government +position. + +_Chátski._ I should gladly serve, but I hate to be subservient. + +_Fámusov._ That ’s it! You are all a haughty lot! Ask how your fathers +have done! Learn from your elders. Let us take, for example, my deceased +uncle, Maksím Petróvich: he used to dine not upon silver, but upon gold; +a hundred servants were at his beck; he was all covered with +decorations; he travelled all the time in a procession, was all the time +at Court, and at what Court! It was not then as now: he served under +Empress Catherine! In those days there was some weight in dignity: bow +all you please to them, they would not nod their heads. A dignitary was +not an ordinary mortal: he drank and ate quite differently. And my +uncle,--what is your prince, your count? He had such a serious look, +such haughty mien,--but when it was necessary to be subservient, he knew +how to limber up his joints. Once he by chance made a misstep during +audience at Court: he fell, and almost hurt his occiput. The old man +groaned,--his hoarse voice provoked her Majesty’s smile, she deigned to +laugh. What did he do? He rose, arranged his clothes, wanted to make a +bow, and fell down again, but this time on purpose. The laughter was +louder than before,--he repeated his feat. Well, how is that according +to your ideas? According to ours, he was shrewd: he fell down in pain, +he rose quite well. Who was oftenest invited to whist? Who heard a kind +word at Court? Maksím Petróvich! Who was honoured above all others at +Court? Maksím Petróvich! That ’s no trifle! Who conferred ranks, and +gave pensions? Maksím Petróvich! Ah, you of to-day are what? + +_Chátski._ Truly, the world has grown more stupid--you may say so with a +sigh! When we compare the present age with the one that ’s past, though +the tradition is living, it is hard to believe: he was most famous whose +neck was oftenest bent, and the brow took by assault in peace, not war; +they mercilessly knocked their brows against the floor. He who needed +it, took delight in grovelling in the dust; those who stood higher wove +flattery like lace,--it was a sincere age of submission and terror! +Under the mask of zeal for the Tsar--(I am not talking of your uncle: we +will not disturb his ashes). But now, who would, even in the most ardent +servility, undertake to amuse the people, and boldly to sacrifice his +occiput? Though then, many an equal of his, or some old man who was +falling to pieces in his ancient hide, seeing his capers, probably +remarked: “Oh, if I could do the same!” There are even now some servile +souls, but nowadays ridicule terrifies them and shame holds them in +check. Kings, with good reason, are slow to favour them. + +_Fámusov._ My God, he is a carbonaro! + +_Chátski._ No, this is a different world! + +_Fámusov._ Dangerous man! + +_Chátski._ Everybody breathes more freely, and nobody hastens to +inscribe himself in the army of fools. + +_Fámusov._ How he talks! And he talks as he writes. + +_Chátski._ To yawn at the ceiling in the house of your patrons, to make +your appearance and sit in silence, to courtesy, dine, fetch a chair, +lift up a handkerchief-- + +_Fámusov._ He wants to preach liberty! + +_Chátski._ Who travels, who lives in the village-- + +_Fámusov._ He does not acknowledge the authorities! + +_Chátski._ Who serves his office and not men-- + +_Fámusov._ I should most severely forbid such gentlemen to get within a +gunshot of the capitals! + +_Chátski._ I will not give you any rest! + +_Fámusov._ My patience is all exhausted, I have had enough! + +_Chátski._ I have unmercifully scolded your age; I leave it to you to +reject part of it in favour of our times: I shall not contradict. + +_Fámusov._ I do not wish to know you! I despise debauch! + +_Chátski._ I have had my say. + +_Fámusov._ Very well, I close my ears! + +_Chátski._ What for? I shall not insult them. + +_Fámusov_ (_rapidly_). Such are the people that race the world and waste +their time. When they return, what order can you expect of them? + +_Chátski._ I am done. + +_Fámusov._ Please, spare me! + +_Chátski._ It is not my desire to continue the dispute. + +_Fámusov._ At least leave my soul to repentance. + + + SCENE 3. THE SAME AND SERVANT + +_Servant._ Colonel Skalozúb! + +_Fámusov_ (_not seeing or hearing him_). You ’ll be court-martialled +yet! They ’ll give you to drink. + +_Chátski._ You have a guest. + +_Fámusov._ I do not hear! You ’ll be court-martialled! + +_Chátski._ Your servant is reporting to you. + +_Fámusov._ I do not hear! You ’ll be court-martialled, court-martialled, +I say! + +_Chátski._ Just turn around, you are addressed. + +_Fámusov_ (_turning around_). Oh, rebellion! I am expecting nothing but +Sodom! + +_Servant._ Colonel Skalozúb! Shall he be received? + +_Fámusov_ (_rising_). Asses! Shall I repeat it a hundred times? Receive +him, call him, ask him in, tell him I am at home, that I am glad. +Begone, be in a hurry! (_Exit Servant._) Please, sir, be careful in his +presence; he is a distinguished gentleman, of solid habits, and he has +no end of decorations; his rank is enviable, considering his age; ’t is +but a question of a short time when he will be general! + + + SCENE 5. CHÁTSKI, FÁMUSOV, SKALOZÚB + +_Fámusov._ Sergyéy Sergyéich, come here, near us! ’T is warmer here, +come here! I ’ll open the register at once. + +_Skalozúb_ (_in a heavy bass_). Why should you trouble yourself? As an +honourable officer I can’t permit that. + +_Fámusov._ Why should I not take a step for a friend? Dear Sergyéy +Sergyéich, put down your hat, take off your sword. Here is a sofa: make +yourself comfortable. + +_Skalozúb._ I do not care where, so I am seated. + +(_All three sit down, Chátski at some distance._) + +_Fámusov._ O friend, not to forget: let us figure out our +relationship--there is no inheritance to be divided here. Do you know--I +used to know, thanks to what your cousin told me--how Nastásya +Nikoláevna is related to you? + +_Skalozúb._ Beg your pardon, I do not know: we did not serve together. + +_Fámusov._ Sergyéy Sergyéich, do you say that? I am ready to get down on +my knees before a relative of mine, wherever I may find him, though he +be at the bottom of the sea. I seldom have subordinates who are not my +relatives: they are nearly all my sister’s children, or some near +relative’s; Molchálin only is not of my family, and for the reason that +he knows about affairs. How can one help thinking of his family, when +there is a chance for promotion or for decoration? Yet, your cousin told +me that through you he has had many advantages in his service. + +_Skalozúb._ Cousin and I distinguished ourselves in 1813 in the +thirtieth of the Chasseurs, and later in the forty-fifth. + +_Fámusov._ How fortunate is he who has such a son! He has, I believe, a +decoration in the buttonhole? + +_Skalozúb._ For August third. We stuck to a trench. He received his in +the buttonhole, I--around my neck. + +_Fámusov._ A lovely man! A fine fellow to look at! A splendid man is +your cousin! + +_Skalozúb._ He ’s chock-full of new-fangled rules. He was to get a +higher rank, when he left the service, and began to read books in his +village. + +_Fámusov._ Strange youth! To read, and then--look out! You have acted as +is proper: you have long been colonel, though you serve but shortly. + +_Skalozúb._ I am sufficiently fortunate in my colleagues. Vacancies have +been open just at the right time: some older ones have been retired, and +others have been killed off. + +_Fámusov._ Yes, if God wants to show one His favour, He advances him! + +_Skalozúb._ Some are luckier than I. Not to go farther, I ’ll mention +our brigadier-general in the fifteenth division. + +_Fámusov._ But, I pray, you are lacking nothing. + +_Skalozúb._ I can’t complain,--I have not been overlooked; yet, I have +been two years with the same regiment. + +_Fámusov._ Oh, you are after the rank of general! Still, in many other +things you have left others far behind. + +_Skalozúb._ No, there are older ones than I in the army: I have been +serving since eighty-nine. Yes, there are many channels through which +one may get promotion; I judge of them like a real philosopher: all I +care for is the rank of general. + +_Fámusov._ You judge excellently. God grant you health and the rank of +general--and, why delay it longer?--it would be time to begin talking of +a Mrs. Skalozúb. + +_Skalozúb._ Get married? I am not disinclined. + +_Fámusov._ Well! One has a sister, another a niece, a daughter. In +Moscow there is no lack of prospective brides: they breed each year! My +friend, confess, it would be hard to find another capital like Moscow. + +_Skalozúb._ Distances of enormous proportion! + +_Fámusov._ There are good taste, my friend, and excellent manners, and +for everything there are laws. There, for example, it is an old custom +with us that the son is honoured according to his father: let him be a +worthless chap, but let him have two thousand peasants to his name, and +he will be an eligible bridegroom; another may be much more agile, full +of all kinds of pride, let him pass for a clever fellow,--yet he will +not be a member of our families, nor need you wonder at this, for it is +only here that we still respect noble birth. Nor is this all! Take our +hospitable bread and salt: anyone who may wish to call on us is welcome! +The door is open for invited and uninvited guests, especially if they be +foreigners. It makes no difference to us whether they be honourable or +dishonest men: dinner is prepared for all alike. On all the Muscovites, +if you please, there is a special stamp. Just look at our youths, our +sons, and grandchildren: we lecture them, but look close at them, and +you will find that at fifteen years they are ready to teach their +teachers! And our old men? When a notion strikes them, and they discuss +affairs,--each word they say is a sentence passed. They are important +men, and care not a fig for anyone. Should someone hear their +discussions about the Government, there would be trouble! Not that they +introduce innovations--never! The Lord preserve us, no! They simply find +fault with this and that, and oftenest with nothing at all: they +quarrel, make a noise, and go each one to his home. They are true +ex-chancellors as regards their brains! I will tell you this much: +evidently time has not been propitious, but no affair will be decided +without them. + +And the ladies? Let anyone try and get the better of them! They are +judges in all things and everywhere,--there are no judges over them. +When they rise in common riot at the cards,--then God grant us patience! +Remember, I have myself been married! Order them to command an army! +Send them to take their seats in the Senate! Irína Vlásevna! Lukórya +Aleksyéevna! Tatyána Yúrevna! Pulkhériya Andréevna! And he who has seen +their daughters will only hang his head! His Majesty the Prussian King +was here: he admired beyond measure the Moscow maidens,--their +mannerliness, not their faces! And forsooth! Can one be brought up +better! They know how to primp themselves in taffeta, velvet, and +dimity; they never say a word simply, but always with a grimace. They +sing French romances, and strike the upper notes. They cling to the +military,--because they are patriots. I must say emphatically: you will +scarcely find another such a capital as Moscow! + +_Skalozúb._ In my opinion, the conflagration has done much for its +embellishment. + +_Fámusov._ You have no cause for complaint: since then our roads, our +sidewalks, houses, and all creak in a new fashion. + +_Chátski._ The houses are new, but the prejudices old. Rejoice: neither +years, nor fashion, nor conflagrations will annihilate them. + +_Fámusov_ (_to Chátski_). Sir, tie a knot for memory’s sake! I asked you +to keep quiet,--’t is but a small service. (_To Skalozúb._) Permit me, +sir, to acquaint you with Chátski, a friend of mine, the son of the late +Andréy Ilích! He does not serve, that is, he sees no advantage in it; he +would make a good official, if he only wished so. ’T is a pity, a great +pity: he is a young man with a head, and he writes and translates +beautifully. One can’t help regretting---- + +_Chátski._ Can you not regret someone else? Even your praises anger me! + +_Fámusov._ Not I alone,--everybody judges you thus. + +_Chátski._ Who are the judges? They being old, their hostility against a +free life cannot be assuaged: they draw their judgments from forgotten +gazettes of the days of Ochákov and the conquest of the Crimea. Ever +ready to chide, they eternally sing one and the same song, and do not +notice that the older they grow, the worse they become. Where, show us, +are the fathers of the fatherland whom we are to assume as our models? +Perchance they are those who by robbery have grown rich, who find +protection against the courts in their friends and families, and who +erect magnificent palaces, where they indulge in banquets and +lavishness, and where the foreign clients will not efface the meanest +features of their former lives? Pray, whose mouth has in Moscow not been +closed by dinners, suppers, and dances? Is it, perhaps, he to whom you +took me still in my swaddling clothes, for some incomprehensible +purpose, to make obeisances,--that Nestor of noble scoundrels, who was +surrounded by a crowd of servants? They bestirred themselves for him, +and in houses of wine and brawls more than once had saved his honour and +his life,--and he suddenly exchanged three hounds for them. Or that +other man who, to please his fancy, brought together in many waggons to +an enforced ballet the children who had been torn away from their +parents? Himself merged in contemplation of Zephyrs and Cupids, he +caused all Moscow to admire their beauty; but he did not with all that +appease his creditors: the Cupids and Zephyrs were all sold one by one. + +These are the men who have lived to have grey hair! It is these that you +wish us to respect in the wilderness! These are our austere arbiters and +judges! Let now one among us young men be found who is an enemy of +servility, who seeks neither a place, nor a promotion, who, thirsting +for knowledge, bends his mind to the sciences, or into whose soul God +Himself has implanted a fire for the high and beautiful creative +arts,--they at once cry: murder! fire! and you at once pass for a +dangerous dreamer. The uniform, nothing but the uniform! In their former +existence their beautiful gold-laced uniforms had cloaked their +pusillanimity and poverty of intelligence,--so they wish us Godspeed +upon their own path. And their wives and daughters have the same passion +for the uniforms. Is it long since I, sharing that weakness for it, have +renounced it? Now I shall never again be prone to such childishness. But +who would then not have been carried away together with all? When +someone of the Guards or from the Court came here for a time, the women +cried “Hurrah!” and threw their bonnets in the air. + +_Fámusov_ (_aside_). He will get me into trouble yet! (_Aloud._) Sergyéy +Sergyéich, I shall wait for you in the study. (_Exit._) + + + + + Aleksándr Aleksándrovich Bestúzhev (pseud. Marlínski). (1797-1837.) + + + Bestúzhev was one of three brothers who took part in the Decembrist + uprising. He had received a brilliant education at home, which, thanks + to the industry of his highly cultivated father, was a museum in + miniature. He turned his attention to literature in 1819, through his + friend Rylyéev joined the December conspiracy, and was banished for + only a few years to Siberia, because he had voluntarily surrendered + himself. He was possessed of an unusually ardent nature, which led him + to engage in most extravagant love affairs, with always a duel in + prospect, and his many novels, with their transcendental Romanticism + and perfervid diction, are only the expression of his inner + experiences. He died in the Caucasus, in an engagement with the + mountaineers, but his body was not recovered. He was, in his day, the + most popular novelist, whom even Púshkin greatly admired, and several + of his works have been translated into many languages, among them also + into Georgian. His _Ammalát Bek_ was translated into English by Thomas + B. Shaw, in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, vol. liii., 1843; also + _The Tartar Chief; or, A Russian Colonel’s Head for Dowry_, from the + Russian of Marlinsky, by G. C. Hebbe, LLD., New York, 1846. + + + FROM “AMMALÁT BEK” + +For some time past, the mountaineers had fallen in considerable numbers +only on Christian villages, for in the stanítsas[5] the resistance had +cost them very dear. For the plundering of houses they approached boldly +yet cunningly the Russian frontier, and on such occasions they +frequently escaped a battle. The bravest Uzdéns desire to meet with +these affairs that they may acquire fame, which they value even more +than plunder. + +In the autumn of the year 1810, the Kabardinians and Chechenians, +encouraged by the absence of the commander-in-chief, assembled to the +number of fifteen hundred men to make an attack upon one of the villages +beyond the Térek, to seize it, carry off prisoners, and take the droves +of horses. The leader of the Kabardinians was the Prince Dzhembulát. +Ammalát Bek, who had arrived with a letter from Sultan Akhmét Khan, was +received with delight. They did not, indeed, assign him the command of +any division; but this arose from the circumstance that with them there +is no order of battle or gradation of command; an active horse and +individual courage secures the most distinguished place in action. At +first they deliberate how best to begin the attack,--how to repel the +enemy; but afterwards they pay no attention to plan or order, and chance +decides the affair. + +Having sent messengers to summon the neighbouring Uzdéns, Dzhembulát +fixed on a place of general assembling; and immediately, on a signal +agreed on, from every height spread the cry: “Garáy, garáy!” (alarm), +and in one hour the Chechenians and Kabardinians were assembling from +all sides. To avoid treason, no one but the leader knew where the +night-camp was to be, from which they were to cross the river. They were +divided into small bands, and were to go by almost invisible paths to +the peaceful village, where they were to conceal themselves till night. +By twilight, all the divisions were already mustered. + +As they arrived, they were received by their countrymen with frank +embraces; but Dzhembulát, not trusting to this, guarded the village with +sentinels, and proclaimed to the inhabitants that whoever attempted to +desert to the Russians should be cut to pieces. The greater part of the +Uzdéns took up their quarters in the sáklas of their kunáks or +relations; but Dzhembulát and Ammalát, with the best of the cavaliers, +slept in the open air around a fire, when they had refreshed their jaded +horses. Dzhembulát, wrapped in his búrka, was considering, with folded +arms, the plan of the expedition; but the thoughts of Ammalát were far +from the battlefield: they were flying, eagle-winged, to the mountains +of Avár, and bitterly, bitterly, did he feel his separation. The sound +of an instrument, the mountain balaláyka, accompanying a slow air, +recalled him from his reverie; and a Kabardinian sang an ancient song. + + “On Kazbék the clouds are meeting, + Like the mountain eagle-flock; + Up to them, along the rock, + Dash the wild Uzdéns retreating; + Onward faster, faster fleeting, + Routed by the Russian brood, + Foameth all their track with blood. + + “Fast behind the regiments yelling, + Lance and bayonet raging hot, + And the seed of death their shot. + On the mail the sabre knelling, + Gallop, steed! for far thy dwelling,-- + See! they fall,--but distant still + Is the forest of the hill! + + “Russian shot our hearts is rending, + Falls the Moollah on his knee, + To the Lord of Light bows he, + To the Prophet he is bending; + Like a shaft his prayer ascending, + Upward flies to Allah’s throne-- + Il-Allah! Oh, save thine own! + + “Ah, despair!--What crash like thunder! + Lo! a sign from heaven above! + Lo! the forest seems to move, + Crashes, murmurs, bursts asunder! + Lower, nearer, wonder! wonder! + Safe once more the Moslem bold + In their forest mountain-hold!” + +“So it was in old times,” said Dzhembulát, with a smile, “when our men +trusted more to prayer, and God oftener listened to them; but now, my +friends, there is a better hope,--your valour! _Our_ omens are in the +scabbards of our sabres, and we must show that we are not ashamed of +them. Hark ye, Ammalát,” he continued, twisting his moustache, “I will +not conceal from you that the affair may be warm. I have just heard that +Colonel K---- has collected his division; but where he is, or how many +troops he has, nobody knows.” + +“The more Russians there are the better,” replied Ammalát, quietly; “the +fewer mistakes will be made.” + +“And the heavier will be the plunder.” + +“I care not for that. I seek revenge and glory.” + +“Glory is a good bird, when she lays a golden egg; but he that returns +with his toróks (straps behind the saddle) empty, is ashamed to appear +before his wife. Winter is near, and we must provide our households at +the expense of the Russians, that we may feast our friends and allies. +Choose your station, Ammalát Bek. Do you prefer to advance in front to +carry off the flocks, or will you remain with me in the rear? I and the +Abréks will march at a foot’s pace to restrain the pursuers.” + +“That is what I also intend. I will be where the greatest peril is. But +what are the Abréks, Dzhembulát?” + +“It is not easy to explain. You sometimes see several of our boldest +cavaliers take an oath, binding them for two or three years, or as long +as they like, never to mingle in games or gaieties, never to spare their +lives in battle, to give no quarter, never to pardon the least offence +in a brother or a friend, to seize the goods of others without fear or +scruple,--in a word, to be the foes of all mankind, strangers in their +family, men whom any person may slay if he can; in the village they are +dangerous neighbours, and in meeting them you must keep your hand on the +trigger; but in war one can trust them.” + +“For what motive, or reason, can the Uzdéns make such an engagement?” + +“Some simply to show their courage, others from poverty, a third class +from some misfortune. See, for instance, yonder tall Kabardinian; he has +sworn to be an Abrék for five years, since his mistress died of the +smallpox. Since that year it would be as well to make acquaintance with +a tiger as with him. He has already been wounded three times for blood +vengeance; but he cares not for that.” + +“Strange custom! How will he return from the life of an Abrék to a +peaceable existence?” + +“What is there strange in this? The past glides from him as water from +the wild-duck. His neighbours will be delighted when he has finished his +term of brigandage. And he, after putting off Abrékism, as a serpent +sheds his skin, will become gentle as a lamb. Among us, none but the +avenger of blood remembers yesterday. But the night is darkening. The +mists are spreading over Térek. It is time for the work.” + +Dzhembulát whistled, and his whistle was repeated to all the outposts of +the camp. In a moment the whole band was assembled. Several Uzdéns +joined from the neighbouring friendly villages. After a short discussion +as to the passage of the river, the band moved in silence to the bank. +Ammalát Bek could not but admire the stillness, not only of the riders, +but of their horses; not one of them neighed or snorted, and they seemed +to place their feet on the ground with caution. + +They marched like a voiceless cloud, and soon they reached the bank of +Térek, which, making a winding at this spot, formed a promontory, and +from it to the opposite shore extended a pebbly shoal. The water over +this bank was shallow and fordable; nevertheless, a part of the +detachment left the shore higher up, in order to swim past the Cossacks, +and, diverting their attention from the principal passage, to cover the +fording party. Those who had confidence in their horses leaped +unhesitatingly from the bank, while others tied to each fore-foot of +their steeds a pair of small skins, inflated with air like bladders: the +current bore them on, and each landed wherever he found a convenient +spot. + + ──────────────────────────────────── + +Daybreak appeared; the fog began to separate, and discovered a picture +at once magnificent and terrible. The principal band of foragers dragged +the prisoners after it,--some were at the stirrup, others behind the +saddle, with their arms tied at their backs. Tears, and groans, and +cries of despair were stifled by the threats or frantic cries of joy of +the victors. Loaded with plunder, impeded by the flocks and horned +cattle, they advanced slowly towards the Térek. The princes and best +cavaliers, in mail-coats and casques glittering like water, galloped +round the dense mass, as lightning flashes round a living cloud. + +In the distance were galloping up from every point the Cossacks of the +Line; they ambushed behind the shrubs and straggling oak-trees, and soon +began an irregular fire with the brigands who were sent against them. In +the meantime, the foremost had driven across the river a portion of the +flocks, when a cloud of dust, and the tramp of the cavalry, announced +the approaching storm. + +About six hundred mountaineers, commanded by Dzhembulát and Ammalát, +turned their horses to repulse the attack, and give time to the rest to +escape by the river. Without order, but with wild cries and shouts, they +dashed forward to meet the Cossacks; but not a single gun was taken from +its belt, not a single sabre glimmered in the air: a Circassian waits +till the last moment before he seizes his weapons. And thus, having +galloped to the distance of twenty paces, they levelled their guns, +fired at full speed, threw their fire-arms over their backs, and drew +their sabres; but the Cossacks of the Line, having replied with a +volley, began to fly, and the mountaineers, heated by the chase, fell +into a stratagem which they often employ themselves. + +The Cossacks had led them up to the Chasseurs of the brave forty-third +regiment, who were concealed at the edge of the forest. Suddenly, as if +the little squares had started out of the earth, the bayonets were +levelled, and the fire poured on them, taking them in flank. It was in +vain that the mountaineers, dismounting from their horses, essayed to +occupy the underwood and attack the Russians from the rear; the +artillery came up and decided the affair. The experienced Colonel +Kortsarév, the dread of the Chechenians, the man whose bravery they +feared and whose honesty and disinterestedness they respected, directed +the movements of the troops, and success could not be doubtful. The +cannon dispersed the crowds of brigands, and their grape flew after the +flying. + +The defeat was terrible; two guns, dashing at a gallop to the +promontory, not far from which the Circassians were throwing themselves +into the river, enfiladed the stream; with a rushing sound, the shot +flew over the foaming waves, and at each fire some of the horses might +be seen to turn over with their feet in the air, drowning their riders. +It was sad to see how the wounded clutched at the tails and bridles of +the horses of their companions, sinking them without saving +themselves,--how the exhausted struggled against the scarped bank, +endeavouring to clamber up, fell back, and were borne away and engulfed +by the furious current. The corpses of the slain were whirled away, +mingled with the dying, and streaks of blood curled and writhed like +serpents on the foam. The smoke floated along the Térek, far in the +distance, and the snowy peaks of the Caucasus, crowned with mist, +bounded the field of battle. + +Dzhembulát and Ammalát Bek fought desperately,--twenty times did they +rush to the attack, twenty times were they repulsed; wearied, but not +conquered, with a hundred brigands they swam the river, dismounted, +attached their horses to each other by the bridle, and began a warm fire +from the other side of the river, to cover their surviving comrades. +Intent upon this, they remarked, too late, that the Cossacks were +passing the river above them; with a shout, the Russians leaped upon the +bank, and surrounded them in a moment. Their fate was inevitable. + +“Well, Dzhembulát,” said the Bek to the Kabardinian, “our lot is +finished. Do you what you will: but for me, I will not render myself a +prisoner alive. ’T is better to die by a ball than by a shameful cord!” + +“Do you think,” answered Dzhembulát, “that my arms were made for a +chain? Allah keep me from such a blot! The Russians may take my body, +but not my soul. Never, never! Brethren, comrades!” he cried to the +others, “fortune has betrayed us, but the steel will not. Let us sell +our lives dearly to the Giaour. The victor is not he who keeps the +field, but he who has the glory; and the glory is his who prefers death +to slavery!” + +“Let us die, let us die, but let us die gloriously!” cried all, piercing +with their daggers the sides of their horses, that the enemy might not +take them, and then piling up the dead bodies of their steeds, they lay +down behind the heap, preparing to meet the attack with lead and steel. + +Well aware of the obstinate resistance they were about to encounter, the +Cossacks stopped, and made ready for the charge. The shot from the +opposite bank sometimes fell in the midst of the brave mountaineers, +sometimes a grenade exploded, covering them with earth and fragments; +but they showed no confusion, they started not, nor blenched; and, after +the custom of their country, began to sing, with a melancholy yet +threatening voice, the death-song, replying alternately stanza for +stanza. + + DEATH-SONG + + _Chorus_ + + “Fame to us, death to you, + Alla-ha, Alla-hu!” + + _Semichorus_ + + “Weep, O ye maidens, on mountain and valley, + Lift the dirge for the souls of the brave! + We have fired our last bullet, have made our last rally, + And Caucasus gives us a grave. + Here the soft pipe no more shall invite us to slumber,-- + The thunder our lullaby sings; + Our eyes not the maiden’s dark tresses shall cumber, + Them the raven shall shade with his wings! + Forget, O my children, your father’s stern duty,-- + No more shall he bring ye the Muscovite booty!” + + _Second Semichorus_ + + “Weep not, ye maidens! Your sisters in splendour, + The Houris, they bend from the sky, + They fix on the brave their sun-glance deep and tender, + And to Paradise bear him on high! + In your feast-cup, my brethren, forget not our story: + The death of the Free is the noblest of glory!” + + _First Semichorus_ + + “Roar, winter torrent, and sullenly dash! + But where is the brave one,--the swift lightning-flash? + Soft star of my soul, my mother, + Sleep, the fire let ashes smother; + Gaze no more, thine eyes are weary, + Sit not by the threshold stone; + Gaze not through the night-fog dreary, + Eat thine evening meal alone, + Seek him not, O mother, weeping, + By the cliff and by the ford! + On a bed of dust he ’s sleeping,-- + Broken is both heart and sword!” + + _Second Semichorus_ + + “Mother, weep not! with thy love burning: + This heart of mine beats full and free, + And to lion-blood is turning + That soft milk I drew from thee; + And our liberty from danger + Thy brave son has guarded well; + Battling with the Christian stranger, + Called by Azrael, he fell; + From my blood fresh odours breathing, + Fadeless flowers shall drink the dew; + To my children fame bequeathing, + Brethren, and revenge to you!” + + _Chorus_ + + “Pray, my brethren, ere we part: + Clutch the steel with hate and wrath! + Break it in the Russian’s heart,-- + O’er corses lies the brave man’s path! + Fame to us, death to you, + Alla-ha, Alla-hu!” + +Struck by a certain involuntary awe, the Chasseurs and Cossacks listened +in silence to the stern sounds of this song; but at last a loud _hurrah_ +resounded from both sides. The Circassians, with a shout, fired their +guns for the last time, and breaking them against the stones, they threw +themselves dagger in hand, upon the Russians. The Abréks in order that +their line might not be broken, bound themselves to each other with +their girdles, and hurled themselves into the mêlée. Quarter was neither +asked nor given: all fell before the bayonets of the Russians. + +“Forward! Follow me, Ammalát Bek,” cried Dzhembulát, with fury, rushing +into the combat which was to be his last: “Forward! For us death is +liberty!” + +But Ammalát heard not his call: a blow from a musket on the back of the +head stretched him on the earth, already sown with corpses and covered +with blood. + + --Transl. by Thomas B. Shaw, in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, + vol. liii. (1843). + + [5] Cossack villages. + + + + + Iván Ivánovich Lazhéchnikov. (1794-1869.) + + + Lazhéchnikov was the most famous of Russian novelists before Gógol. + His father was a rich grain and salt merchant in the city of Kolómna, + and he spared no money for the education of his son. At sixteen years + Lazhéchnikov wrote his _Thoughts in Imitation of La Bruyère_, which + was published in The Messenger of Europe. His father having lost all + his property, he accepted a government position, but in 1812 joined + the army and with it went through the whole French campaign. In 1819 + appeared his _Campaign Memoirs of a Russian Officer_, which are full + of youthful ardour, patriotism, and a consciousness of the European + importance of Russia. Having attracted the attention of the Court, he + received various appointments, but again left the service in 1826. He + then wrote his three great novels on which his reputation rests, + namely, _The Last Noviks_, _The Ice House_, and _The Heretic_. His + later stories did not sustain his fame. + + In English has appeared _The Heretic_, translated from the Russian of + Lajetchnikoff, by Thomas B. Shaw (in three volumes), Edinburgh and + London, 1844, and again, under the title _The Heretic and the Maid of + Moscow, a Romance of Russia_, by Thos. B. Shaw, London, 1849. + + + THE HERETIC + + PROLOGUE + +It was the 27th of October, 1505. As if for the coronation of a Tsar, +Moscow was decorated and adorned. The Cathedral of the Assumption, the +Church of the Annunciation, the Stone Palace, the Tower Palace, the +Kreml with its towers, a multitude of stone churches and houses +scattered over the city--all this, just come out of the hands of skilful +architects, bore the stamp of freshness and newness, as if it had risen +up in one day by an almighty will. In reality, all this had been created +in a short time by the genius of Ioánn III. A person who, thirty years +back, had left Moscow, poor, insignificant, resembling a large village, +surrounded by hamlets, would not have recognised it had he seen it now; +so soon had all Russia arisen at the single manly call of this great +genius. + +Taking the colossal infant under his princely guardianship, he had torn +off its swaddling bands, and not by years, but by hours, he reared it to +a giant vigour. Nóvgorod and Pskov, which had never vailed their bonnet +to mortal man, had yet doffed it to him, and had even brought him the +tribute of liberty and gold: the yoke of the Khans had been cast off, +and hurled beyond the frontiers of the Russian land; Kazán, though she +had taken cover from the mighty hunter, yet had taken cover like the +she-wolf that has no earth,--her territories had melted away, and were +united into one mighty appanage; and the ruler who created all this was +the first Russian sovereign who realised the idea of a Tsar. + +Nevertheless, on the 27th of October, 1505, the Moscow which he had thus +adorned was preparing for a spectacle not joyful but melancholy. Ioánn, +enfeebled in mind and body, lay upon his death-bed. He had forgotten his +great exploits; he remembered only his sins, and repented of them. + +It was towards the evening-tide. In the churches gleamed the lonely +lamps; through the mica and bladder panes of the windows glimmered the +fires, kindled in their houses by faith or by necessity. But nowhere was +it popular love which had lighted them; for the people did not +comprehend the services of the great man, and loved him not for his +innovations. At one corner of the prison, the Black House, but later +than the other houses, was illumined by a weak and flickering light. On +the bladder which was the substitute for glass in the window, the iron +grating, with its spikes, threw a net-like shadow, which was only +relieved by a speck, at one moment glittering like a spark, at another +emitting a whirling stream of vapour. It was evident that the prisoner +had made this opening in the bladder, in order, unperceived by his +guards, to look forth upon the light of heaven. + +This was part of the prison, and in it even now was pining a youthful +captive. He seemed not more than twenty. So young! What early +transgression could have brought him here? From his face you would not +believe in such transgressions; you would not believe that God could +have created that fair aspect to deceive. So handsome and so noble that +you would think never had one evil intention passed over that tranquil +brow, never had one passion played in those eyes, filled with love to +his neighbour and calm melancholy. And yet, by his tall and majestic +figure, as he starts from his reverie, and shakes his raven curls, he +seems to be born a lord, and not a slave. His hands are white and +delicate as a woman’s. On the throat of his shirt blazes a button of +emerald; in the damp and smoky room, on a broad bench against the wall, +are a feather-bed with a pillow of damask, and with a silken covering; +and by the bedside a coffer of white bone in filigree work. Evidently he +is not a common prisoner. No common prisoner!--no, he is a crowned +prince!--and pure in thought and deed as the dwellers of the skies. + +All his crime is a diadem, which he did not seek, and which was placed +on his head by the caprice of his sovereign; in no treason, in no crime +had he been accomplice; he was guilty by the guilt of others,--by the +ambition of two women, the intrigues of the courtiers, the anger of his +grandfather against the others, and not against him. They had destined +him a throne, and they had dragged him to a dungeon. He understood not +why they crowned him, and now he understands not why they deprived him +of liberty,--of the light of heaven,--of all that they deny not even to +the meanest. For him his nearest kinsman dared not even pray aloud. + +This was the grandson of Iván III., the only child of his beloved +son,--Dmítri Ivánovich. + +At one time he sat in melancholy musing, resting his elbows on his +knees, and losing his fingers in the dark curls of his hair; then he +would arise, then lie down. He was restless as though they had given him +poison. No one was with him. A solitary taper lighted up his miserable +abode. The stillness of the room was disturbed only by the drops from +the ceiling, or the mice nibbling the crumbs that had fallen from the +captive’s table. The little light now died away, now flared up again; +and in these flashes it seemed as though rows of gigantic spiders crept +along the wall. In reality, these were scribbling in various languages, +scrawled with charcoal or with a nail. Hardly was it possible to spell +out among them--“Matheas,” “Marfa, burgomistress of Nóvgorod the Great,” +“Accursed be----,” “Liebe Mutter, liebe A----”; and several words more, +half obliterated by the damp which had trickled along the wall, or been +scratched out by the anger or the ignorance of the guards. + +The door of the dungeon softly opened. Dmítri Ivánovich started up. +“Afóniya, is it thou?” he joyfully enquired; but seeing that he had +mistaken for another the person who entered, he exclaimed sadly: “Ah, is +it thou, Nebogáty! Why cometh not Afóniya? I am sad, I am lonely, I am +devoured by grief, as if a serpent lay at my heart. Didst thou not say +that Afóniya would come as soon as they lighted the candles in the +houses?” + +“Afanási Nikítin[6] hath a mind as single as his eye,” said the deacon +Dmítri Nebogáty, a kind and good-natured officer, yet strict in the +performance of the charge given him by the Great Prince, of guarding his +grandson. (We may remark that at this time he, in consequence of the +illness of Dmítri, the treasurer and groom of the bedchamber, fulfilled +their duties. All honour to a prince, even though he be a prisoner!) + +“Make thyself easy, Dmítri Ivánovich; soon, be sure, will come our +orator. Thou wottest thyself he groweth infirm, he seeth not well, and +so must grope along the wall; and till he cometh, my dear child, play, +amuse thyself with thy toys. Sit down cozily on thy bed; I will give +thee thy coffer.” + +And Dmítri Ivánovich, a child, though he was more than twenty years old, +to escape from the weariness that oppressed him, instantly accepted the +proposition of his deacon, sat down with his feet on his bed, took the +ivory box upon his knees, and opened it with a key that hung at his +girdle. By degrees, one after the other, he drew out into the light a +number of precious articles which had been imprisoned in the coffer. + +The young prince held up to the fire, now a chain of gold with bears’ +heads carved on the links, or a girdle of scaly gold, then signet rings +of jacinth or emerald, then crucifixes, collars, bracelets, precious +studs: he admired them, threw the collars round his neck, and asked the +deacon whether they became him; took orient pearls and rubies by the +handful, let them stream like rain through his fingers, amused himself +in playing with them, like an absolute child--and suddenly, hearing a +voice in the neighbouring chamber, threw them all back anyhow into the +coffer. His face lighted up. + +“’T is Afóniya!” he cried, giving back the box to the deacon, and +descending from the bed. + +“Lock it, Dmítri Ivánovich!” said Nebogáty firmly: “without that I will +not receive it.” + +Hastily clinked the key in the coffer; the door opened, and there +entered the room an old man of low stature, bowed down by the burden of +years; the silver of his hair was already becoming golden with age. From +the top of his head to the corner of his left eye was deeply gashed a +scar, which had thus let fall an eternal curtain before that eye, and +therefore the other was fixed in its place, like a precious stone of +wondrous water, for it glittered with unusual brilliancy, and seemed to +see for itself and for its unfortunate twin brother. No son more +affectionately meets a tenderly beloved father than Dmítri Ivánovich met +the old man. Joy sparkled in the eyes of the Tsarévich, and spoke in his +every gesture. + +He took his guest’s walking-staff, shook from his dress the powdered +snow, embraced him, and seated him in the place of honour on his bed. +Nevertheless, the guest was no more than Afanási Nikítin, a merchant of +Tver, a trader without trade, without money, poor, but rich in +knowledge, which he had acquired in an adventurous journey to India, +rich in experience and fancies, which he knew how to adorn beside with a +sweet and enchanting eloquence. He lived on the charity of his friends, +and yet was no man’s debtor: the rich he paid with his tales, and to the +poor he gave them for nothing. He was allowed to visit the Great Prince +Dmítri Ivánovich (whom, however, it was forbidden to call Great Prince). +We may judge how delightfully he filled up the dreadful solitude of the +youth’s imprisonment, and how dear he therefore was to the captive. And +what did Dmítri give him for his labour? Much, very much to a good +heart,--his delight, the only pleasure left him in the world,--and this +reward the Tver man would not have exchanged for gold. Once the +Tsarévich had desired to present him with one of the precious articles +from his ivory box; but the deacon gently reminded the captive that all +the articles in his coffer were his, that he might play with them as +much as he pleased, but that he was not at liberty to dispose of them. + +The day before Afanási Nikítin had begun a tale about the “Almayne,” +surnamed the _Heretic_. To-day, when he had seated himself, he continued +it. His speech flowed on like the song of a nightingale, which we listen +to from the flush of morning till the glow of eve without shutting our +eyes even for a moment. Greedily did the Tsarévich listen to the +story-teller, his cheeks burned, and often tears streamed from his eyes. +Far, very far, he was borne away from his dungeon, and only from time to +time the rude brawling of the guards behind the partition-wall recalled +him to bitter reality. In the meantime the deacon Nebogáty’s pen was +hurriedly scratching along the parchment: the sheets, pasted one to +another in a long line, were fast covered with strange hieroglyphics, +and wound up into a huge roll. He was writing down from Afanási +Nikítin’s mouth, _A tale touching a certain Almayne, surnamed the +Heretic_. + +Suddenly, in the midst of the tale, there rushed into the dungeon the +court officer of the Great Prince. “Iván Vasílevich is about to render +up his soul to God,” said he hastily; “he grieveth much about thee, and +hath sent for thee. Make haste!” + +The prince was convulsively agitated. Over his face, which became as +white as a sheet, passed some thought; it flashed in his eyes. Oh, this +was a thought of Paradise! Freedom----a crown----the +people----mercy----perhaps a block----what was there not in that +thought? The captive--the child who had just been playing with +jewels--arose the Great Prince of all Russia. + +Iván was still a sovereign, though on his dying bed; death had not yet +locked for ever his lips, and those lips might yet determine on his +successor. The thoughts of another life, remorse, an interview with his +grandson, whom he had himself of his own free will crowned Tsar, and +whom they had just brought from a dungeon,--what force must these +thoughts have on the will of the dying man! + +They gave the prince his bonnet, and just as he stood, conducted by the +deacon and other officers, he hastened to the Great Prince’s palace. In +the hall he encountered the sobbing of the kinsmen and servants of the +Tsar. “It is over!--My grandsire is dead!” thought he, and his heart +sunk within him, his steps tottered. + +The appearance of Dmítri Ivánovich in the palace of the Great Prince +interrupted for a time the general lamentation, real and feigned. The +unexpectedness, the novelty of the object, the strange fate of the +prince, pity, the thought that he, perhaps, would be the sovereign of +Russia in a moment, overwhelmed the minds and hearts of the courtiers. +But even at this period there were among the long-beards some wise +heads: acute, far-sighted calculations, which we now call politics, were +then as now oracles of fate, and though sometimes, as happens even in +our own days, they were overthrown by the mighty hand of Providence. + +These calculations triumphed over the momentary astonishment; the tears +and sobbing began again, and were communicated to the crowd. Only one +voice, amidst the expressions of simulated woe, ventured to raise itself +above them: “Haste, my lord, our native prince,--thou hast been sent for +no short time,--Iván Vasílevich is yet alive,--the Lord bless thee, and +make thee our Great Prince!” + +This voice reassured the youth; but when he was about to enter the +bedchamber where the dying man lay, his strength began to fail. The door +opened; his feet seemed nailed to the threshold. Iván had only a few +minutes left to live. It seemed as if death awaited only the arrival of +his grandson, to give him his dismissal. Around his bed stood his sons, +the primate, his favourite boyárs, his kinsmen. + +“Hither,--to me, Dmítri,--my dear grandson,” said the Great Prince, +recognising him through the mists of death. + +Dmítri Ivánovich threw himself towards the bed, fell upon his knees, +kissed the cold hand of his grandsire, and bedewed it with tears. The +dying man, as if by the power of galvanism, raised himself, laid one +hand on his grandson’s head, with the other blessed him, then spoke in a +breathless voice: “I have sinned before God and thee----Forgive +me----forgive----The Lord and I have crowned thee----be----my----” + +The face of Vasíli Ioánnovich was convulsed with envy and fear. Yet one +word more---- + +But death then stood on the side of the strongest, and that word was +never pronounced in this world. The Great Prince Iván Vasílevich yielded +up his last breath, applying his cold lips to the forehead of his +grandson. His son, who had been earlier designated by him as his heir, +immediately entered into all his rights. They tore Dmítri from the +death-bed, led him out of the Great Prince’s palace, and conducted him +back to his dungeon. There, stretched on his bed, was reposing Afóniya +in the deep slumber of the just. Having bewailed his woes, the ill-fated +Dmítri lay down beside the old man. Prince and peasant were there equal. +The one dreamed that night of royal banquets, and of a glorious crown, +glittering like fire, upon his head, and of giving audience to foreign +ambassadors, and reviewing vast armies; the other, of the hospitable +palm and the rivulet in the deserts of Arabia. The poor man awaked the +first, and how was he surprised to find the Tsarévich by his side! +Mournfully he shook his hoary head, and wept, and was about to bless +him, when he heard the joyful gallant cry of Dmítri Ivánovich as he +dreamed--“Warriors!----on the Tartars!----on Lithuania!----” + +And immediately awoke the young prince. Long he rubbed his eyes, and +gazed around him, and then, falling on Afóniya’s bosom, he melted into +tears. “Ah, father, father, I have been dreaming----” + +His words were strangled by sobs. + +Soon all that he had seen and heard in the palace of the Great Prince +began to appear to him as a dream. Only when he recalled to his memory +that weary vision, he felt on his forehead the icy seal which had been +placed on it by the lips of the dying Tsar. + +The winter came: all was as before in the Black House; nothing but the +decorations of the scene had changed: the uniform sound of the falling +drops was dumb, the bright speck had vanished from the bladder +window-pane; instead, a silvery film of frost adhered to the corners of +the walls and the crevices of the ceiling, and the bright speck, through +which the captive could see the heavens, with their sun and free birds, +was veiled with a thick patch. But Afóniya, as of old, visited the +dungeon. He had finished his tale of the Almayne, whom they called the +Heretic, and the scribe Nebogáty, putting it on paper word for word, had +placed the roll in his iron chest,--an amusement for his descendants. + +Thus passed a little more than three years. + +The royal prisoner was no longer in the dungeon, and Afanási Nikítin was +seen no more within it. Assuredly Dmítri Ivánovich had been set at +liberty. Yes, the Lord had set him free from all earthly bonds. Thus +writes an annalist: “In the year 1509, on the fourteenth of February, +departed this life the Grand Prince Dmítri Ivánovich, in prison.” +Gerberstein adds: “It is thought he was starved--with cold or with +hunger--to death, or stifled with smoke.”--From _The Heretic_, +translated from the Russian by Thomas B. Shaw, Edinburgh and London, +1844. + + [6] See vol. i., p. 111. + + + + + Baron Antón Antónovich Délvig. (1798-1831.) + + + Délvig entered the Lyceum at Tsárskoe-Seló on the same day with + Púshkin, whose friend he remained to his death. He began writing + poetry at about the same time as his more gifted schoolmate. At first + he confined himself to more or less close imitations of Horace, but + under Púshkin’s influence he soon turned his attention to original + poems. Though only a star of the second magnitude, his verses became + very popular and were set to music. Later they served as the + starting-point for the popular poets, Koltsóv, Nekrásov, and others. + + + GLOOMY THOUGHTS + + To-day I feast with you, dear friends, + With joy our spirits burn; + To-morrow’s chance may find me there + Whence I shall not return. + + Thus, long ago, I spake to those + Who were with merriment wild; + For gloomy thoughts of coming grief + Possessed me from a child. + + My laughing friends around my locks + Enwreathed a fresh bright crown; + “For shame!” they cried; “youth’s not a time + To wear a moody frown.” + + War breaking out, my friends to it + As to a banquet prest; + I with them; but me cruel fate + Soon parted from the rest. + + In weary idleness their steps + I followed mentally; + And oft their relatives I cheered + With words of victory. + + Time passed: the thoughts of days gone by + Sad tears of sorrow yield; + Then ceased the war. Where are my friends? + Dead on the battlefield. + + Now I am sorrowful at feasts, + Where others’ joy is great; + In wine-cups e’en the past recalled + Embitters all my state. + + --From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_. + + ─────── + + Sang a little bird, and sang, + And grew silent; + Knew the heart of merriment, + And forgot it. + Why, O little songster bird, + Grew you quiet? + How learned you, O heart, to know + Gloomy sorrow? + Ah! the little bird was killed + By grim snow-blasts; + Perished is the fellow brave + Through ill gossips! + Had the bird but flown away + Tow’rds the blue sea! + Had the youth but run away + Tow’rds the forest! + On the sea the billows roar, + And not snow-blasts; + In the woods are evil beasts, + And not people! + + ─────── + + Ah, you night, you little night! + Ah, you night, you stormy night! + Why from early evening tide + Even to the midnight late + Twinkle not your little stars, + Shineth not your full-orbed moon? + You are veiled with darkling clouds! + ’T is with you, I think, O night, + Even as with me, young man,-- + Villain grief has called on us! + When the dire one takes abode + Somewhere deep within the heart,-- + You forget the lasses fair, + Dances and obeisances; + You forget from evening tide + Even to the midnight late, + Singing songs, to take delight + In the chorus and the dance. + No, you sob, you weep aloud,-- + And, a sad and lonely lad, + You upon your coarse straw bed + Throw yourself as in the grave! + + + + + Aleksándr Sergyéevich Púshkin. (1799-1837.) + + + Púshkin was descended, on his father’s side, from a family of + distinguished men, and, on his mother’s side, from Peter the Great’s + favourite negro, Hannibal. Having early lost his mother, he was + brought up by his grandmother, but the greatest influence upon his + first education had his nurse, Arína Rodiónovna, who charmed him with + her rich stock of popular stories and fairy tales, and who, even later + in life, inspired him with national themes. In 1811 Púshkin entered + the newly opened Lyceum at Tsárskoe Seló, where he did not display any + especial aptitude for studies; but he soon began to write poetry, and + in 1817, at graduation, read his own production which attracted + attention. After leaving school he threw himself into the whirl of + society pleasures, but at the same time devoted himself to his first + great poem, still in the Romantic style of the older generation, + _Ruslán and Lyudmíla_. In 1820 he incurred the displeasure of the + Government for writing some verses on liberty and for his liberal + utterances. He was banished to the south, passing part of the time in + the Caucasus. Here his genius was unfolded in all its greatness. In + the Caucasus he wrote _The Prisoner of the Caucasus_; the Crimea gave + him material for his _Bakhchisaráy Fountain_; in the neighbourhood of + Odessa he composed his _Gypsies_ and laid the foundation for _Evgéni + Onyégin_, besides writing a large number of smaller poems. In 1824 + Púshkin was permitted to return to his native village, in the + Government of Pskov, where he remained two years, after which he was, + by the intercession of his friends, allowed to settle in the capitals. + In this last period of his activity he devoted himself more especially + to subjects taken from Russian life. He wrote his series of fairy + tales, illustrated the acts of Peter the Great by a number of poems, + of which _The Bronze Rider_ is the best known, and wrote a _History of + the Pugachév Rebellion_. Aspersion upon his domestic life caused him + to challenge to a duel the son of the Dutch ambassador, by whom he was + killed in 1837, in his thirty-eighth year. + + Púshkin’s great poetical genius has not been surpassed by that of any + other Russian poet, and has only been equalled by that of Lérmontov. + All the later generations have drawn their inspiration from him. Since + the forties his importance has been obscured by the universal + domination of the democratic spirit in literature, as evidenced in the + Russian novel. The celebration of the centennary anniversary of his + birth has given rise to a wide-spread interest in Púshkin, and his + influence is again in the ascendant. + + Púshkin’s prose tales have often been translated into English: _Queen + of Spades_, in Chambers’s Papers, 1850, and Living Age, 1850, also in + Gift of Friendship, 1854; _The Captain’s Daughter_, translated by J. + F. Hanstein, London, 1859; some tales in _Simple Tales, a Reading Book + for Little Folks_, by Mary Anna Pietzker, St. Petersburg, 1860; _The + Pistolshot_, in the Albion, 1861; _Russian Romance_ (consisting of + miscellaneous tales), by Mrs. J. B. Telfer (_née_ Mouravieff), London, + 1873 and 1880; _Queen of Spades_, in Lippincott’s Magazine, 1876; + _Marie, a Story of Russian Love_, by Marie H. de Zielinska, Chicago, + 1877 (1876); _The Captain’s Daughter, a Tale of the Time of Catherine + II. of Russia_, translated by Madame Igelström and Mrs. Percy Easton, + London, 1883; _Queen of Spades_, in Modern Age, 1884; _The Daughter of + the Commandant, a Russian Romance_, translated by Mrs. Milne Home, + London, 1891; _The Queen of Spades and Other Stories_, from the + Russian, by Mrs. Sutherland Edwards (the first three stories had + appeared before in the Strand Magazine), London, 1892; _Tales from the + Russian_, I.--_Dubrovsky_ (in Railway and General Automatic Library), + London, 1892; _The Prose Tales of A. Poushkin_, from the Russian, by + T. Keane, London, 1894 and 1896. + + Of his poetical works the following have been translated: Extracts + from _Ruslán and Lyudmíla_, _The Prisoner_, _The Robbers_, in _Russian + Literature and Poetry_, in Foreign Review, 1827; extracts from _The + Fountain of Bakhchisaráy_ and _Poltava_ in The Foreign Quarterly + Review, 1832; _The Talisman_, with Other Pieces (_The Hermit_), + translated by George Borrow, St. Petersburg, 1835; _Pushkin, the + Russian Poet_ (containing _October 19, 1825_, _Caucasus_, _To ----_, + _The Mob_, _The Black Shawl_, _The Rose_, _Napoleon_, _The Storm_, + _The General_, _Alas for Her_, _To the Sea_, _Echo_, _The Lay of the + Wise Oleg_, _Remembrance_, _I have outlived the hopes that charmed + me_, _Motion_, _To the Slanderers of Russia_, _Presentiment_, _The + Madonna_, _André Chénier_), by T. B. Shaw, in The Edinburgh Blackwood + Magazine, 1845; _The Bakhchesarian Fountain_, W. D. Lewis, + Philadelphia, 1849; several poems, by W. R. Morfill, in Constitutional + Press, 1860; _On the Calumniators of Russia_, by W. R. Morfill, in + Literary Gazette, 1861; _Translations from Russian and German Poets_, + by a Russian Lady (containing two extracts from _The Gypsies_, _The + Poet_, _The Angel_, _The 19th of October_, _The Demon_, and several + minor poems), Baden-Baden, 1878; _Eugene Oneguine_, translated by + Lieut. Col. Spalding, London, 1881; _The Black Shawl_, _The Talisman_, + _Ode to the Sea_, and several extracts (the first two, amended, in + _The Story of Russia_, New York and London, 1890), by W. R. Morfill, + in Westminster Review, 1883; _The Flower_, _The Birds_, _The + Bridegroom_, _The Winter Journey_, _The Anchor_, _Poltava_, _Song of + Oleg the Wise_, _To ----_, _The Angel_, _The Demons_, in C. T. + Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887; _Poems by Alexander Pushkin_, + translated by Ivan Panin, Boston, 1888; parts of _Boris Godunov_ in + _Shakespeare and the Russian Drama_, by N. H. Dole, in Poet Lore, vol. + i. (1889); _I wander down the noisy streets_, _Anacreontic_, _To his + Wife_, _Let me not lose my senses_, _I’ve overlived aspirings_, _Peter + the Great_, _The Prophet_, _Play_, _My Kathleen_, _A Monument_, _The + Poet_, in John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_, London, 1891. In + Free Russia have appeared: by Charlotte Sidgwick, in vol. x., No. 1, + _The Poison-Tree_, _ib._, No. 3, _The Monument_; by Mrs. M. G. Walker, + in vol. x., No. 4, _The Prophet_; by Elizabeth Gibson, vol. xii., No. + 2, _A Message_. In The Anglo-Russian Literary Society have been + published: some verses, by a Russian lady, in No. 11; by F. P. + Marchant, _Scene from “Boris Godunov,”_ in No. 13, _The Shield of + Oleg_, in No. 15, _The Prophet_, _The Three Springs_, _The Prayer_, + _Truth_, in No. 22, _To My Friends_, in No. 32; by J. Pollen, _The + Talisman_, in No. 22; by Miss H. Frank, _The Demons_, in No. 34; by L. + A. Magnus, _Through clam’rous streets my feet may stray_, in No. 33. + In the Library of the World’s Best Literature are given: by N. H. + Dole, _The Bard_, _The Angel_, _The Free Life of the Bird_ (a + different version of this poem is given below); reprints of several of + T. B. Shaw’s and J. Pollen’s poems, and extracts from _Boris Godunov_ + and _Evgeni Onyegin_, by Miss I. Hapgood. + + + FROM “THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER” + +As I crossed the square I saw several Bashkirs assembled round the +gibbets, engaged in dragging off the boots of those who had been hanged. +With difficulty I repressed my indignation, feeling convinced that if I +gave expression to it, it would have been perfectly useless. The +brigands invaded every part of the fortress, and plundered the officers’ +houses. On every side resounded the shouts of the drunken mutineers. I +reached home. Savélich met me on the threshold. + +“Thank God!” he exclaimed when he saw me; “I was beginning to think that +the villains had seized you again. Ah! my little father, Peter Andréich, +will you believe it, the robbers have plundered us of +everything--clothes, linen, furniture, plate--they have not left us a +single thing. But what does it matter? Thank God! they have spared your +life. But, my lord, did you recognise their leader?” + +“No, I did not recognise him. Who is he then?” + +“How, my little father! Have you forgotten that drunken scoundrel who +swindled you out of the pelisse at the inn? A brand new hairskin +pelisse; and the beast burst the seams in putting it on.” + +I was astounded. In truth, the resemblance of Pugachév to my guide was +very striking. I felt convinced that Pugachév and he were one and the +same person, and then I understood why he had spared my life. I could +not but feel surprised at the strange connection of events--a child’s +pelisse, given to a roving vagrant, had saved me from the hangman’s +noose, and a drunkard, who had passed his life in wandering from one inn +to another, was now besieging fortresses and shaking the empire! + +“Will you not eat something?” asked Savélich, still faithful to his old +habits. “There is nothing in the house; but I will go and search, and +get something ready for you.” + +When I was left alone, I began to reflect. What was I to do? To remain +in the fortress now that it was in the hands of the villain, or to join +his band, was unworthy of an officer. Duty demanded that I should go +wherever my services might still be of use to my fatherland in the +present critical position of its affairs---- But love strongly urged me +to remain near Maria Ivánovna and be her protector and defender. +Although I foresaw a speedy and inevitable change in the course of +affairs, yet I could not help trembling when I thought of the danger of +her situation. My reflections were interrupted by the arrival of one of +the Cossacks, who came to inform me that “the great Tsar required me to +appear before him.” + +“Where is he?” I asked, preparing to obey. + +“In the Commandant’s house,” replied the Cossack. “After dinner our +father took a bath, but at present he is resting. Ah! your Excellency, +it is very evident that he is a distinguished person; at dinner he +deigned to eat two roasted sucking pigs, then he entered the bath, where +the water was so hot that even Tarás Kúrochkin could not bear it; he had +to give the besom to Fomká Bikbáev, and only came to himself through +having cold water poured over him. There is no denying it; all his ways +are majestic---- And I was told that in the bath he showed his Tsar’s +signs upon his breast: on one side a two-headed eagle as large as a +five-kopek piece, and on the other his own likeness.” + +I did not consider it necessary to contradict the Cossack’s statement, +and I accompanied him to the Commandant’s house, trying to imagine +beforehand what kind of a reception I should meet with from Pugachév, +and endeavouring to guess how it would end. The reader will easily +understand that I did not by any means feel easy within myself. + +It was beginning to get dark when I reached the Commandant’s house. The +gibbet, with its victims, loomed black and terrible before me. The body +of the poor Commandant’s wife still lay at the bottom of the steps, near +which two Cossacks stood on guard. The Cossack who accompanied me went +in to announce me, and, returning almost immediately, conducted me into +the room where, the evening before, I had taken a tender farewell of +Maria Ivánovna. An unusual spectacle presented itself to my gaze. At a +table, covered with a cloth and loaded with bottles and glasses, sat +Pugachév and some half a score of Cossack chiefs, in coloured caps and +shirts, heated with wine, with flushed faces and flashing eyes. I did +not see among them Shvabrín and his fellow traitor, the orderly. + +“Ah! your Excellency!” said Pugachév, seeing me. “Welcome; honour to you +and a place at our banquet.” + +The guests moved closer together. I sat down silently at the end of the +table. My neighbour, a young Cossack, tall and handsome, poured out for +me a glass of wine, which, however, I did not touch. I began to observe +the company with curiosity. Pugachév occupied the seat of honour, his +elbows resting on the table, and his broad fist propped under his black +beard. His features, regular and sufficiently agreeable, had nothing +fierce about them. He frequently turned to speak to a man of about fifty +years of age, addressing him sometimes as Count, sometimes as Timoféich, +sometimes as uncle. All those present treated each other as comrades, +and did not show any particular respect for their leader. The +conversation was upon the revolt, and of their future operations. Each +one boasted of what he had done, expressed his opinion, and fearlessly +contradicted Pugachév. And in this strange council of war it was +resolved to march upon Orenbúrg; a bold movement, and which was to be +very nearly crowned with success. The march was fixed for the following +day. + +“Now, lads,” said Pugachév, “before we retire to rest, let us have my +favourite song. Chumakóv, begin!” + +My neighbour sang, in a shrill voice, the following melancholy peasant’s +song, and all joined in the chorus: + + “Stir not, mother, green forest of oak, + Disturb me not in my meditation; + For to-morrow before the court I must go, + Before the stern judge, before the Tsar himself. + The great Lord Tsar will begin to question me: + ‘Tell me, young man, tell me, thou peasant’s son, + With whom have you stolen, with whom have you robbed? + Did you have many companions with you?’ + ‘I will tell you, true-believing Tsar, + The whole truth I will confess to you. + My companions were four in number: + My first companion was the dark night, + My second companion was a steel knife, + My third companion was my good horse, + My fourth companion was my taut bow, + My messengers were my tempered arrows.’ + Then speaks my hope, the true-believing Tsar: + ‘Well done, my lad, brave peasant’s son; + You knew how to steal, you knew how to reply: + Therefore, my lad, I will make you a present + Of a very high structure in the midst of a field-- + Of two upright posts with a cross-beam above.’” + +It is impossible to describe the effect produced upon me by this popular +gallows song, trolled out by men destined for the gallows. Their +ferocious countenances, their sonorous voices, and the melancholy +expression which they imparted to the words, which in themselves were +not very expressive, filled me with a sort of poetical terror. + +The guests drank another glass, then rose from the table and took leave +of Pugachév. + +I wanted to follow them, but Pugachév said to me: + +“Sit down; I want to speak to you.” + +We remained face to face. + +For some moments we both continued silent. Pugachév looked at me +fixedly, every now and then winking his left eye with a curious +expression of craftiness and drollery. At last he burst out laughing, +and with such unfeigned merriment that I, too, looking at him, began to +laugh, without knowing why. + +“Well, your lordship,” he said to me, “confess now, you were in a +terrible fright when my fellows put the rope round your neck. I do not +believe that the sky appeared bigger than a sheepskin to you just +then---- You would have been strung up to the crossbeam if it had not +been for your servant. I knew the old fellow at once. Well, would your +lordship have thought that the man who conducted you to the inn was the +great Tsar himself?” + +Here he assumed an air of mystery and importance. + +“You have been guilty of a serious offence against me,” continued he, +“but I pardoned you on account of your virtue, and because you rendered +me a service when I was compelled to hide myself from my enemies. But +you will see something very different presently! You will see how I will +reward you when I enter into possession of my kingdom! Will you promise +to serve me with zeal?” + +The rascal’s question, and his insolence, appeared to me so amusing that +I could not help smiling. + +“Why do you smile?” he asked, frowning. “Perhaps you do not believe that +I am the great Tsar? Is that so?--Answer plainly!” + +I became confused. To acknowledge a vagabond as emperor was quite out of +the question; to do so seemed to me unpardonable cowardice. To tell him +to his face that he was an imposter was to expose myself to certain +death, and that which I was prepared to say beneath the gibbet before +the eyes of the crowd, in the first outburst of my indignation, appeared +to me now a useless boast. I hesitated. In gloomy silence Pugachév +awaited my reply. At last (and even now I remember that moment with +self-satisfaction) the sentiment of duty triumphed over my human +weakness. I replied to Pugachév: + +“Listen, I will tell you the whole truth. Judge yourself: can I +acknowledge you as emperor? You, a sensible man, would know that it +would not be saying what I really thought.” + +“Who am I, then, in your opinion?” + +“God only knows; but whatever you may be, you are playing a dangerous +game.” + +Pugachév threw a rapid glance at me. + +“Then you do not believe,” said he, “that I am the Emperor Peter? Well, +be it so. But is not success the reward of the bold? Did not Gríshka +Otrépev reign in former days? Think of me what you please, but do not +leave me. What does it matter to you one way or the other? Whoever is +pope is father. Serve me faithfully and truly, and I will make you a +field-marshal and a prince. What do you say?” + +“No,” I replied with firmness. “I am by birth a nobleman; I have taken +the oath of fealty to the Empress; I cannot serve you. If you really +wish me well, send me back to Orenbúrg.” + +Pugachév reflected. + +“But if I let you go,” said he, “will you at least promise not to serve +against me?” + +“How can I promise you that?” I replied. “You yourself know that it does +not depend upon my will. If I am ordered to march against you, I must +go--there is no help for it. You yourself are now a chief; you demand +obedience from your followers. How would it seem if I refused to serve +when my services were needed? My life is in your hands; if you set me +free, I will thank you; if you put me to death, God will be your judge; +but I have told you the truth.” + +My frankness struck Pugachév. + +“Be it so,” said he, slapping me upon the shoulder. “One should either +punish completely or pardon completely. Go then where you like. Come +to-morrow to say good-bye to me, and now go to bed. I feel very drowsy +myself.” + +I left Pugachév and went out into the street. The night was calm and +cold. The moon and stars were shining brightly, lighting up the square +and the gibbet. In the fortress all was dark and still. Only in the +tavern was a light visible, where could be heard the noise of the late +revellers. I glanced at the pope’s house. The shutters and doors were +closed. Everything seemed quiet within. + +I made my way to my own quarters and found Savélich grieving about my +absence. The news of my being set at liberty filled him with unutterable +joy. + +“Thanks be to Thee, Almighty God!” said he, making the sign of the +cross. “At daybreak to-morrow we will leave the fortress and go wherever +God will direct us. I have prepared something for you; eat it, my little +father, and then rest yourself till the morning, as if you were in the +bosom of Christ.” + +I followed his advice and, having eaten with a good appetite, I fell +asleep upon the bare floor, worn out both in body and mind.--From T. +Keane’s _The Prose Tales of Alexander Poushkin_. + + + FROM “EVGÉNI ONYÉGIN” + + TATYÁNA’S LETTER TO ONYÉGIN + + I write to you! Is more required? + Can lower depths beyond remain? + ’T is in your power now, if desired, + To crush me with a just disdain. + But if my lot unfortunate + You in the least commiserate + You will not all abandon me. + At first I clung to secrecy: + Believe me, of my present shame + You never would have heard the name, + If the fond hope I could have fanned + At times, if only once a week, + To see you by our fireside stand, + To listen to the words you speak, + Address to you one single phrase + And then to meditate for days + Of one thing till again we met. + ’T is said you are a misanthrope, + In country solitude you mope, + And we--an unattractive set-- + Can hearty welcome give alone. + Why did you visit our poor place? + Forgotten in the village lone, + I never should have seen your face + And bitter torment never known. + The untutored spirit’s pangs calmed down + By time (who can anticipate?) + I had found my predestinate, + Become a faithful wife and e’en + A fond and careful mother been. + + Another! to none other I + My heart’s allegiance can resign, + My doom has been pronounced on high, + ’T is Heaven’s will and I am thine. + The sum of my existence gone + But promise of our meeting gave, + I feel thou wast by God sent down + My guardian angel to the grave. + Thou didst to me in dreams appear, + Unseen thou wast already dear. + Thine eye subdued me with strange glance, + I heard thy voice’s resonance + Long ago. Dream it cannot be! + Scarce hadst thou entered thee I knew, + I flushed up, stupefied I grew, + And cried within myself: ’t is he! + Is it not truth? in tones suppressed + With thee I conversed when I bore + Comfort and succour to the poor, + And when I prayer to Heaven addressed + To ease the anguish of my breast. + Nay! even as this instant fled, + Was it not thou, O vision bright, + That glimmered through the radiant night + And gently hovered o’er my head? + Was it not thou who thus didst stoop + To whisper comfort, love, and hope?-- + Who art thou? Guardian angel sent + Or torturer malevolent? + Doubt and uncertainty decide: + All this may be an empty dream, + Delusions of a mind untried, + Providence otherwise may deem-- + Then be it so! My destiny + From henceforth I confide to thee! + Lo! at thy feet my tears I pour + And thy protection I implore. + Imagine! Here alone am I! + No one my anguish comprehends, + At times my reason almost bends, + And silently I here must die-- + But I await thee: scarce alive, + My heart with but one look revive; + Or to disturb my dreams approach + Alas! with merited reproach. + + ’T is finished. Horrible to read! + With shame I shudder and with dread-- + But boldly I myself resign: + Thine honour is my countersign! + + --From Lieut.-Col. Spalding’s _Eugene Onéguine_, London, 1881. + + + FROM “THE BAKHCHISARÁY FOUNTAIN” + + Days passed away; Maria slept + Peaceful, no cares disturbed her, now-- + From earth the orphan maid was swept. + But who knew when, or where, or how? + If prey to grief or pain she fell, + If slain or Heaven-struck, who can tell? + She sleeps; her loss the chieftain grieves, + And his neglected harem leaves, + Flies from its tranquil precincts far, + And with his Tartars takes the field, + Fierce rushes mid the din of war, + And brave the foe that does not yield, + For mad despair hath nerved his arm, + Though in his heart is grief concealed, + With passion’s hopeless transports warm. + His blade he swings aloft in air + And wildly brandishes, then low + It falls, whilst he with pallid stare + Gazes, and tears in torrents flow. + + His harem by the chief deserted, + In foreign lands he warring roved, + Long nor in wish nor thought reverted + To scene once cherished and beloved. + His women, to the eunuch’s rage + Abandoned, pined and sank in age. + The fair Grusinian now no more + Yielded her soul to passion’s power, + Her fate was with Maria’s blended, + On the same night their sorrows ended; + Seized by mute guards the hapless fair + Into a deep abyss they threw,-- + If vast her crime, through love’s despair, + Her punishment was dreadful too! + + At length th’ exhausted Khan returned, + Enough of waste his sword had dealt, + The Russian cot no longer burned, + Nor Caucasus his fury felt. + In token of Maria’s loss + A marble fountain he upreared + In spot recluse:--the Christian’s cross + Upon the monument appeared + (Surmounting it a crescent bright, + Emblem of ignorance and night!). + Th’ inscription mid the silent waste + Not yet has time’s rude hand effaced, + Still do the gurgling waters pour + Their streams dispensing sadness round, + As mothers weep for sons no more, + In never-ending sorrows drowned. + In morn fair maids, (and twilight late,) + Roam where this monument appears, + And pitying poor Maria’s fate + Entitle it the Fount of Tears! + + --From W. D. Lewis’s _The Bakchesarian Fountain_. + + + THE POISON-TREE + + Remote and dire, in desert-lands + Where naught but sunburnt sod is seen, + Anchár, the Tree of Poison, stands-- + A sentinel, with threatening mien. + + The thirsty steppe-land gave it birth + In bitterness and anger dark; + It sucked foul venom from the earth, + Its roots and leaves are dead and stark. + + At noon, when fiercest sunlight glows, + The poison from its veins escapes, + And trickling down the stem it flows + By evening into globèd shapes. + + No bird will seek this Tree of Death, + Nor dare the tiger prowl anigh, + The hungry whirlwind’s dusty breath + Grows baneful as it hastens by. + + If e’er a wand’ring cloud distil + Soft rains upon its blighted top, + Their harmless nature turns to ill, + And changed, in deadly dews they drop. + + But yet a man’s imperial nod + Sent forth a fellow-man afar, + Whose meek, obedient footsteps trod, + Right to the base of foul Anchár. + + By morning he returned, and bore + The fatal resin, with a bough + Of withered leaves, and like it wore + A wasted look--and from his brow + + Cold sweat was streaming, and he tried + To stand, but fell to earth prostrate. + And there, poor slave! he sank and died + In presence of the Potentate, + + Who sopped his arrows in the bane, + And sent them dark--a doom new-found!-- + By messenger o’er hill and plain + To neighbours in the countries round. + + --Transl. by Charlotte Sidgwick, in Free Russia, January, 1899 + (vol. x., No. 1). + + + THE BIRD + + Naught of labour, naught of sorrow, + On God’s little bird doth rest, + And it questions not the morrow, + Builds itself no lasting nest. + + On the bough it sleeps and swings + Till the ruddy sun appears, + Then it shakes its wings and sings, + When the voice of God it hears. + + After Spring’s delightful weather, + When the burning Summer’s fled, + And the Autumn brings together + For men’s sorrow, for men’s dread, + + Mists and storms in gloomy legions; + Then the bird across the main + Flies to far-off, southern regions, + Till the Spring returns again. + + --Transl. by N. H. Dole (publication unascertainable). + + + THE PROPHET + + By spiritual thirst opprest, + I hied me to the desert dim, + When lo! upon my path appeared + The holy six-winged seraphim. + My brow his fingers lightly pressed, + Soothing my eyelids into rest: + Open my inward vision flies, + As ope a startled eaglet’s eyes. + He touched my ears, and they were filled + With sounds that all my being thrilled. + I felt a trembling fill the skies, + I heard the sweep of angels’ wings, + Beneath the sea saw creeping things, + And in the valleys vines arise. + Over my lips a while he hung, + And tore from me my sinful tongue-- + The babbling tongue of vanity. + The sting of serpent’s subtlety + Within my lips, as chilled I stood, + He placed, with right hand red with blood. + Then with a sword my bosom cut, + And forth my quivering heart he drew; + A glowing coal of fire he put + Within my breast laid bare to view. + As corpse-like on the waste I lay, + Thus unto me God’s voice did say-- + “Prophet, arise! Confess My Name; + Fulfil my will; submit to Me! + Arise! Go forth o’er land and sea, + And with high words men’s hearts inflame!” + + --From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_. + + + THE TALISMAN + + Where fierce the surge with awful bellow + Doth ever lash the rocky wall, + And where the moon most brightly mellow + Doth beam when mists of evening fall; + Where midst his harem’s countless blisses + The Moslem spends his vital span, + A sorceress there with gentle kisses + Presented me a Talisman. + + And said: “Until thy latest minute + Preserve, preserve my Talisman; + A secret power it holds within it,-- + ’T was love, true love the gift did plan. + From pest on land or death on ocean + When hurricanes its surface fan, + O object of my fond devotion! + Thou scap’st not by my Talisman. + + “The gem in eastern mine which slumbers, + Or ruddy gold ’t will not bestow; + ’T will not subdue the turbanned numbers + Before the Prophet’s shrine which bow; + Nor high through air on friendly pinions + Can bear thee swift to home or clan, + From mournful climes or strange dominions, + From South to North,--my Talisman. + + “But oh! when crafty eyes thy reason + With sorceries sudden seek to move, + And when in night’s mysterious season + Lips cling to thine,--but not in love,-- + From proving then, dear youth, a booty + To those who falsely would trepan, + From new heart wounds, and lapse from duty, + Protect thee shall my Talisman.” + + --From _The Talisman, and Other Pieces_, by George Borrow, St. + Petersburg, 1835. + + + THE LAY OF THE WISE OLÉG + + Wise Olég to the war he hath bound him again, + The Khozárs have awakened his ire; + For rapine and raid, hamlet, city, and plain + Are devoted to falchion and fire. + In mail of Byzance, girt with many a good spear, + The Prince pricks along on his faithful destrere. + + From the darksome fir-forest, to meet that array, + Forth paces a grey-haired magician: + To none but Perún did that sorcerer pray, + Fulfilling the prophet’s dread mission: + His life he had wasted in penance and pain:-- + And beside that enchanter Olég drew his rein. + + “Now rede me, enchanter, beloved of Perún, + The good and the ill that ’s before me; + Shall I soon give my neighbour-foes triumph, and soon + Shall the earth of the grave be piled o’er me? + Unfold all the truth; fear me not; and for meed, + Choose among them,--I give thee my best battle-steed.” + + “O enchanters, they care not for prince or for peer, + And gifts are but needlessly given; + The wise tongue ne’er stumbleth for falsehood or fear, + ’T is the friend of the councils of Heaven! + The years of the future are clouded and dark, + Yet on thy fair forehead thy fate I can mark: + + “Remember now firmly the words of my tongue; + For the chief finds a rapture in glory: + On the gate of Byzantium thy buckler is hung, + Thy name shall be deathless in story; + Wild waves and broad kingdoms thy sceptre obey, + And the foe sees with envy so boundless a sway: + + “And the blue sea, uplifting its treacherous wave, + In its wrath,--in the hurricane-hour,-- + And the knife of the coward, the sword of the brave, + To slay thee shall never have power: + Within thy strong harness no wound shalt thou know, + For a guardian unseen shall defend thee below. + + “Thy steed fears not labour, nor danger, nor pain, + His lord’s lightest accent he heareth, + Now still, though the arrows fall round him like rain, + Now o’er the red field he careereth; + He fears not the winter, he fears not to bleed,-- + Yet thy death-wound shall come from thy good battle-steed!” + + Olég smiled a moment, but yet on his brow, + And lip, thought and sorrow were blended: + In silence he bent on his saddle, and slow + The Prince from his courser descended; + And as though from a friend he were parting with pain, + He strokes his broad neck and his dark flowing mane. + + “Farewell then, my comrade, fleet, faithful, and bold! + We must part,--such is Destiny’s power: + Now rest thee,--I swear, in thy stirrup of gold + No foot shall e’er rest, from this hour. + Farewell! we ’ve been comrades for many a long year,-- + My squires, now I pray ye, come take my destrere. + + “The softest of carpets his horse-cloth shall be: + And lead him away to the meadow; + On the choicest of corn he shall feed daintilie, + He shall drink of the well in the shadow.” + Then straightway departed the squires with the steed, + And to valiant Olég a fresh courser they lead. + + Olég and his comrades are feasting, I trow; + The mead-cups are merrily clashing: + Their locks are as white as the dawn-lighted snow + On the peak of the mountain-top flashing: + They talk of old times, of the days of their pride, + And the fights where together they struck side by side. + + “But where,” quoth Olég, “is my good battle-horse? + My mettlesome charger,--how fares he? + Is he playful as ever, as fleet in the course; + His age and his freedom how bears he?” + They answer and say: on the hill by the stream + He has long slept the slumber that knows not a dream. + + Olég then grew thoughtful, and bent down his brow: + “O man, what can magic avail thee! + A false lying dotard, Enchanter, art thou: + Our rage and contempt shall assail thee. + My horse might have borne me till now, but for thee!” + Then the bones of his charger Olég went to see. + + Olég he rode forth with his spearmen beside; + At his bridle Prince Ígor he hurried: + And they see on a hillock by Dnieper’s swift tide + Where the steed’s noble bones lie unburied: + They are washed by the rain, the dust o’er them is cast, + And above them the feather-grass waves in the blast. + + Then the Prince set his foot on the courser’s white skull, + Saying: “Sleep, my old friend, in thy glory! + Thy lord hath outlived thee, his days are nigh full: + At his funeral feast, red and gory, + ’T is not thou ’neath the axe that shall redden the sod, + That my dust may be pleasured to quaff thy brave blood. + + “And am I to find my destruction in this? + My death in a skeleton seeking?” + From the skull of the courser a snake, with a hiss, + Crept forth as the hero was speaking: + Round his legs, like a ribbon, it twined its black ring; + And the Prince shrieked aloud as he felt the keen sting. + + The mead-cups are foaming, they circle around,-- + At Olég’s mighty Death-Feast they ’re ringing; + Prince Ígor and Ólga they sit on the mound; + The war-men the death-song are singing: + And they talk of old times, of the days of their pride, + And the fights where together they struck side by side. + + --From T. B. Shaw’s _Pushkin, the Russian Poet_, in Blackwood’s + Magazine, 1845. + + + TO THE SLANDERERS OF RUSSIA + + Why rave ye, babblers, so--ye lords of popular wonder? + Why such anathemas ’gainst Russia do you thunder? + What moves your idle rage? Is ’t Poland’s fallen pride? + ’T is but Slavonic kin among themselves contending, + An ancient household strife, oft judged but still unending, + A question which, be sure, _ye_ never can decide. + For ages past still have contended + These races, though so near allied: + And oft ’neath Victory’s storm has bended + Now Poland’s, and now Russia’s side. + Which shall stand fast in such commotion, + The haughty Pole, or faithful Russ? + And shall Slavonic streams meet in a Russian ocean-- + Or _that_ dry up? This is point for us. + + Peace, peace! your eyes are all unable + To read our history’s bloody table; + Strange in your sight and dark must be + Our springs of household enmity! + To you the Kreml and Prága’s tower + Are voiceless all,--you mark the fate + And daring of the battle-hour,-- + And understand us not, but hate---- + + What stirs ye? Is it that this nation + On Moscow’s flaming wall, blood-slaked and ruin-quenched, + Spurned back the insolent dictation + Of Him before whose nod ye blenched? + Is it that into dust we shattered + The Dagon that weighed down the earth so wearily? + And our best blood so freely scattered + To buy for Europe peace and liberty? + + Ye ’re bold of tongue--but hard, would ye in deed but try it. + Or is the hero, now reclined in laurelled quiet, + Too weak to fix once more Izmail’s red bayonet? + Or hath the Russian Tsar ever in vain commanded? + Or must we meet all Europe banded? + Have we forgot to conquer yet? + Or rather, shall they not, from Perm to Tauris’ fountains, + From the hot Colchian steppes to Finland’s icy mountains, + From the grey Kreml’s half-shattered wall, + To far Kathay, in dotage buried,-- + A steely rampart close and serried, + Rise, Russia’s warriors, one and all? + Then send your numbers without number, + Your maddened sons, your goaded slaves, + In Russia’s plains there ’s room to slumber, + And well they ’ll know their brethren’s graves! + + --From T. B. Shaw’s _Pushkin, the Russian Poet_, in Blackwood’s + Magazine, 1845. + + + FROM “BORÍS GODUNÓV” + + I + + Night: _A cell in the Chúdov monastery_ + + FATHER PÍMEN, GRIGÓRI (sleeping). + + _Pímen (writing before a lamp)._ Once more, one final anecdote, and + then + My manuscript will be complete, the task + On me, a sinner, laid by God, fulfilled. + ’T is not for naught that during all these years + The Lord hath made me witness many things, + And taught me all the art of writing books. + When in the future some industrious monk + Shall find my hard-accomplished, nameless work, + He will, like me, illume his little lamp, + And, brushing off the dust of centuries, + Will copy down my truthful chronicle. + Then will the children of believers true + Read all the story of their native land, + Recall the labours of their mighty Tsars, + Performed for them, for glory and for right, + And humbly offer prayers that God will blot + The crimes, though dark, of him who wrought for them. + Thus, bent for many years I live anew. + The past before me rose its hurrying flood. + Is ’t long ago that like the angry sea + Time’s fateful surges broke in great events? + And now it rests in motionless repose! + Not many men my memory preserves, + Not many words are in my mind engrossed, + And all the rest for ever now are gone. + But day is nigh, my little lamp burns dim, + One more, one final story of the past! (_Writes._) + _Grigóri_ (_wakes_). That dream again? How strange! That cursèd + dream! + Thrice have I dreamed it! But the aged man + Still sits before his little lamp and writes. + He hath not closed his eyes the livelong night + In slumber: how I love his peaceful mien, + As, deeply buried in the past, his soul + Broods o’er the secret of his manuscript. + How gladly would I scan his precious line. + What writeth he: the Tatars’ bloody reign,-- + The cruel deeds of John the Terrible? + The stormy council of old Nóvgorod? + The glories of the fatherland? In vain! + Nor in his glance nor in his lofty brow + Can one discern the secrets of his mind: + His mien is calm and full of majesty, + As well becomes an aged priest who looks + With cloudless eye on good and evil men + Impartially, detecting right and wrong + Or hatred or compassion knowing not. + _Pímen._ Art thou awake? + _Grigóri._ Thy blessing, honoured sire. + _Pímen._ The Lord His blessing grant thee, oh, my son, + To-day, hereafter, and for evermore! + _Grigóri._ Long has thy pen been busy, nor has sleep + Once brought thee sweet oblivion this night; + But some strange, diabolic vision hath disturbed + My rest: my enemy hath tormented me. + I dreamed that up the winding narrow stairs + I mounted to the windy tower alone; + Before me from the top all Moscow lay + Diminished like an ant-hill. Far below + The people swarmed and babbled in the square + And jeered at me with senseless ridicule. + Shame mastered me and terror overwhelmed, + And, falling headlong on my face, I waked. + ’T is thrice that I have dreamed the selfsame dream. + Is ’t not a marvel? + _Pímen._ ’T is thy youthful blood + Makes sport of thee: by prayer and strenuous fast + Thy dreams will be with peaceful visions filled. + ’T is e’en not otherwise with me when I, + Dazed with involuntary drowsiness, + E’er fail my soul with earnest prayer to guard-- + My aged dreams are then disturbed with sin: + While scenes of banqueting torment me oft, + Now warlike camps or surging battles rude, + Now senseless dissipations of wild youth. + _Grigóri._ How gaily must have passed thy youthful days! + Thou wast in battle ’neath Kazán’s high walls; + Hast shared the wars in Lithuania’s plains; + Hast seen the wanton court of John the Great. + How fortunate! But I from earliest years + Have been immured in cells a needy monk! + Why should not I have had delight in war + And feasted at the table of the Tsar? + Then, when I reached like thee the term of life, + I might have turned me gladly from the world + And all its vanities, and shut myself + Within the calm retirement of a cell + To meditate upon my holy vows. + _Pímen._ Lament not, brother, that thou hast so soon + The world abandoned, that a loving God + Hath little of temptation sent to thee. + Take thou my word, a fascination strong + Is exercised upon us from afar, + By glory, luxury, and woman’s wiles. + Long have I lived and much have I enjoyed; + But only true enjoyment have I known + Since to the cloister God hath led my steps. + Recall the mightiest Tsars that have ever lived. + Who stands above them? God alone! And who + Would venture to oppose them? None! What then? + On them so sorely weighs the golden crown + They would exchange it gladly for the cowl. + E’en John the Tsar sought comfort and relief + Within the semblance of monastic rule. + His court, where swarmed his haughty favourites, + The novel aspect of a cloister took; + His body-guard, in sackcloth and in stole, + Appeared like docile monks, the while the Tsar, + Himself, the cruel Tsar, an abbot mild. + Myself have seen, here in this very cell-- + (’T was then the abode of that most just of men, + Kiríll, who suffered much, and even then + I also had been led by God to see + The folly of the world)--myself have seen, + Here in this very cell, the mighty Tsar, + Grown weary of his mad designs and wrath, + Repenting, sit amongst us, meek and mild. + We stood before him silent, motionless, + And quietly he would converse with us, + Would hold the abbot and the brotherhood: + “Ye fathers, soon the wished-for hour will come, + When I ’ll appear with hunger to be saved; + Thou Nikodím, thou Sérgi, thou Kiríll, + And all of ye, accept my heartfelt vow! + I ’ll come to you a sinner in despair; + I ’ll take upon myself the monk’s harsh garb, + I ’ll fall, O holy father, at thy feet!” + Thus spoke the mighty ruler of the realm; + And gentle words flowed from his cruel lips, + And tears bedewed his cheeks; and we in tears + Would pray our Lord his sinful, suffering soul + To fill with everlasting love and peace. + But his son Feódor? Upon the throne + Vowed to perpetual silence, like a monk; + He sighed to lead a life of easy peace. + He straightway changed the royal palace-halls + To cloistered cells, the heavy cares of state + Did not at all disturb his saintly soul. + God mercifully gave the Tsar his peace; + And while he lived, our Russia, undisturbed + In taintless glory, owned his gentle sway. + But when he died, a miracle was wrought, + Unheard of: at his couch appeared a man + With face of flame, seen by the Tsar alone. + Feódor talked with him, and called him “Sire,”-- + “Great Patriarch.” All around were filled with fear + To see the heavenly apparition there, + Because the holy father was not then + Within the chamber where the Tsar was laid. + When he appeared sweet fragrance filled the halls, + And like the sun his holy visage shone. + + --From _Shakespeare and the Russian Drama_, by N. H. Dole, in + Poet-lore, vol. i., No. 11. + + + DEMONS + + Clouds are shifting, clouds are flying, + Scarce the hidden moon’s pale light + On the drifting snow is lying,-- + Wild the heavens, wild the night. + Swiftly o’er the stormswept lowland-- + Jingle, jingle bells amain! + Swiftly still, though heavy-hearted, + Drive I o’er the frozen main. + + “Ho there! driver, onward!” “Faster, + Good my lord, we may not go, + For the stormwind blinds me, master, + And the road is choked with snow.” + Useless all! the track is hidden; + We are lost to help and home; + From afar the demon spies us-- + Closer circling see him come! + + Ha! beside us he ’s careering, + Hissing, spitting,--now, I ween, + Round the steeds so madly veering + On the brink of yon ravine. + There--if near or far I know not-- + He was whirling in my sight. + There again he pined and dwindled, + Vanished into empty night! + + Clouds are shifting, clouds are flying, + Scarce the hidden moon’s pale light + On the drifting snow is lying,-- + Wild the heavens, wild the night. + Courage fails to struggle longer, + Suddenly the sleigh bells cease-- + Pause the team--Declare thou yonder-- + Wolf or tree-stem--is it peace? + + Hark, the wind is wailing sadly, + Loudly snort the startled team. + There, see there he gambols madly, + Through the murk his eyeballs gleam. + Once again the team has started-- + Jingle, jingle bells amain! + Lo, the spirit-hosts assemble + O’er the faintly gleaming plain! + + Form they have not, have no number, + Lightly whirling round, they seem + Like the dead leaves of November + In the moon’s uncertain beam. + Are they endless? whither fly they? + Why this wailful chanting, say! + Mourn they now their dead? In marriage + Give they, else, some witch away? + + Clouds are shifting, clouds are flying, + Scarce the hidden moon’s pale light + On the drifting snow is lying,-- + Wild the heavens, wild the night. + Still they come and still they vanish + In the darkness o’er the plain, + Still their moaning and imploring + Rends my very heart in twain! + + --Transl. by Miss H. Frank, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, + No. 34. + + + + + Evgéni Abrámovich Baratýnski. (1800-1844.) + + + Baratýnski was the most talented of all the contemporary poets of + Púshkin. He came of a distinguished family in the Government of + Tambóv. At fifteen years he entered the Corps of Pages, but was soon + expelled for some misdemeanour. This compelled his enlisting as a + common soldier in St. Petersburg, where he came at once in contact + with the leading poets of the day, and he began himself writing + verses. The following six years he passed in Finland, the austere + nature of which much impressed his mind and gave him ample material + for his melancholy Muse. After rising to the rank of a commissioned + officer, he retired and settled in Moscow. In 1843 he went abroad, and + the next year he suddenly died in Naples. His best production, _The + Gipsy Girl_, was at one time preferred to Púshkin’s poems, but he is + now chiefly remembered as the earliest and most brilliant of Russian + pessimistic poets. + + In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887, is given _Faith + Rewarded_; the same, under the title _The Madonna_, translated by F. + P. Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 28. + + + FINLAND + +Into your clefts you have received the poet, granite rocks of Finland, +eternal granites, guardian heroes of the land of the glacial crown. With +the lyre he is among you. His greeting is a greeting to the masses of +the rock, contemporaneous with the world. Like them may he for ever be +unchangeable! + +How wondrously everything about me charms my eye: there with its +immeasurable waters the sea is welded with the heavens; here the dreamy +pine-forest has descended with heavy tread from the mountain rock, and +mirrors itself in the smooth waters! ’T is late: day is out, but the +vault of heaven is bright; night comes without darkness upon the Finnish +cliffs, and only for its own adornment it leads out upon the horizon a +useless choir of diamond stars. This is the country of Odin’s +children,--the distant nations of the storm! This is the cradle of their +restless days, consecrated to famous warrings! + +Silent is the sounding shield, not heard the voice of the skald; the +flaming oak is extinguished; the stormy wind has scattered the solemn +calls, the sons know not the exploits of their fathers, and prone in the +dust lie the prostrate forms of their gods,--and all around me is deep +silence. O ye who carried war from shore to shore, where are ye, heroes +of the north? Your vestige has disappeared from your native land. Do ye +press your grieving eyes against the cliffs and swim, a misty host, up +in the clouds? Do ye? Give me answer, listen to my voice calling to you +in the silence of the night. Mighty sons of these threatening, eternal +cliffs! How were ye severed from your rocky fatherland? Why are ye sad? +Why have I read upon your melancholy faces the smile of chiding? And ye +have hid yourselves in the abode of shades! And time has not spared your +names! What are our exploits, what the glory of our days, what is our +windy tribe? Oh, everything will in its turn disappear in the abyss of +years! For all there is one law,--the law of annihilation. In all I hear +the mysterious greeting of sought-for forgetfulness. + +But I,--for life’s sake loving life in ingloriousness,--shall I with +careless soul tremble before destiny? Though not eternal in time, I am +eternal for myself: does not the storm of time speak to imagination +alone? The moment belongs to me, as I belong to the moment. What care I +for past or future races? Not for them do I strum the soft-voiced +strings: though not listened to, I am sufficiently rewarded with sounds +for sounds, and with dreams for dreams. + + + SPRING + +Spring, O spring! How pure the air, how clear the vault of heaven! With +its bright azure it blinds my eyes. + +Spring, O spring! How, upon the pinions of the wind, caressing the +sunbeams, the clouds flit upon high! + +The rivulets babble, the rivulets sparkle; roaring the river carries on +its triumphant back the uplifted ice. + +The trees are still bare, but in the grove the old leaves, as before, +rustle under foot and emit fragrance. + +Rising to the very sun and invisible in the clear height, the lark sings +the song of welcome to the spring. + +What has happened to my soul? With the brook it is a brook, and with the +bird a bird: with one it babbles, with the other flies into heaven. + +Why do sun and spring give it such joy? Does it, as a daughter of the +elements, make merry at their banquet? + +Well, happy is he who there drinks oblivion from thought, who there is +carried far away from it! + + + TRUTH + +Yearning since childhood for happiness, I have ever been poor in +happiness! Or shall I never attain it in the wilderness of existence? + +My young dreams have flitted from the heart,--I do not recognise the +world: I am deprived of my former aim of hopes, but have no new aim. + +“Senseless are you and all your wishes!” spoke to me a secret voice, and +I cast off for ever the best creations of my dreams. + +But wherefore has the disappointment of the soul not been complete? Why +lives within me the blind pity of my youthful dreams? + +Thus I once murmured, meditating about my heavy lot: suddenly I saw--it +was no dream--Truth before me. + +“My light will show the path to happiness!” said she. “Let me but +wish,--and I will teach you, impassioned one, joyful dispassionateness: + +“Though through me you may lose the heat of your heart; though, learning +to know people, you, perchance, frightened, may cease to love your +neighbours and your friends. + +“I shall destroy all the charms of existence, but shall put your mind +aright; I shall pour an austere cold over your soul, but shall give it +calm.” + +I trembled, as I listened to her words, and grievously I replied to her: +“O unearthly guest, sad is your visitation! + +“Your light is the funereal light of all earthly joys! Your peace, alas! +is the melancholy peace of the grave, and it is terrible to the living! + +“No, I am not yours: in your severe science I shall not find happiness! +Leave me: I will somehow manage to wander upon my path. + +“Good-bye! or no: when my luminary in the starry height will begin to +grow dim, and when the time will come to forget all that to my heart is +dear,-- + +“Appear then! Open then my eyes, enlighten my mind, that, despising +life, I may without murmuring descend into the abode of night!” + + + + + Nikoláy Mikháylovich Yazýkov. (1803-1846.) + + + Yazýkov was born in Simbírsk, where he remained to his twelfth year. + In 1820 he entered the School of Mines at St. Petersburg, but before + graduating went to the university at Dorpat, from which he also failed + to get a diploma. He passed his student days in riotous bouts that + completely undermined his health. His anacreontic poems early + attracted the attention of Zhukóvski and Púshkin, and the latter + became a warm friend of his. He then settled in Moscow, where he + served in one of the governmental offices, and wrote a series of + poems, among which _To the Poet_, _The Conflagration_, and _A Spring + Night_ are his best. Ill health soon drove him abroad, and there he + composed his famous _To the Rhine_; his other poems of the same period + have a religious and patriotic tinge. Yazýkov’s poetry has been the + subject of much controversy: some deny the intrinsic value of his + productions, though all unite in extolling the exquisite musicalness + and harmony of his verse. + + N. H. Dole has translated his _The Sailor_ (publication + unascertainable). In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887, + are given _The Earthquake_, _Evening_, _Prayer_. + + + THE SAILOR + + Cruel is our lonely ocean, + Roaring always day and night; + Buried ’neath its wild commotion + Many a wreck lies, far from sight. + + Courage, comrades! I, confiding, + To the free winds give my barque; + Forth it hastens, swiftly riding + O’er the billows grim and dark. + + Thick the clouds fly o’er the heaven, + Fierce the gale grows,--black the waves; + Hither, thither we are driven, + While the waking whirlwind raves. + + Courage, comrades! Peals the thunder, + High the watery heaps arise, + Yawning gulfs now draw us under, + Now we ’re lifted to the skies. + + Yet behold, our ship is nearing + Through the storm the wished-for land; + See, the vaults of heaven are clearing, + See, the port is near at hand. + + Thither but brave hearts and ready + Will the billows speed along! + Courage, comrades! straight and steady + Flies our vessel, stanch and strong. + + --Transl. by N. H. Dole (publication not ascertainable). + + + THE STORM + +Lo! behind the distant mountains is concealed the beautiful day; under +the protection of the woods above the waters the tremulous shade grows +ever longer in wavelike rows. In the river gleams the evening +star,--hills, vales, and shores are deserted: long processions of carts, +having left the fields, drive into the village. Now and then a watchdog +barks, or the breeze makes the leaves rustle in the darkling oak-forest, +or a bird flies timidly by, or a heavy, creaking waggon, drawn by a +tired horse, and counting off each plank with its wheels, crosses the +lightly poised bridge. And suddenly a broken, dull rattling is borne +over the river, already silent and dreamy,--and all is quiet again. + +But in the distance, at the edge of the heavens, large, cloudy waves +have on all sides veiled the full moon: now they part, now they come +together again; now the silent clouds threateningly merge into one mass +that, lightning-bearing and black, steals from the east upon the azure +vault. Already is the speechlessness of the woods disturbed by the +encroachment of the wind; no longer is the nightly flowing of the river +peaceful and dark. In broad ripples flash upon it the far-stretched +groves of shadows,--just as a sail, trembling in the air and almost +furled by the sailor, when suddenly a storm arises, and rolling the +noisy floods, seizes the pinion of his barque and stretches it above the +whirling waters. + +Darkness has drowned the heavens; rain pours down; the storm agitates +and stirs the waters and the woods.--it lightens, thunders, and raves. +Wondrous moments! When from end to end, through the stormy clouds a +furrow of toothed lightning gleams in purple fire,--then everything is +seen: the chain of the distant mountains and the variegated pictures of +the windings of the Sorót, the lakes, the villages, the banks, and the +vales. Suddenly the darkness grows more grim and murky, the thunder +claps are louder; noisier, thicker, faster are the torrents of the rain. +But to-morrow the luminary of the day will, in luxurious silence, appear +in the light-blue heaven, and will re-establish a golden morning in the +storm-washed country. + + + TO THE POET + +When inspiration has grown one with you, and your breast heaves mightily +with it, and you perceive your consecration and know your God-blest +path, when all, by which the heavenly gift is patent upon earth, is +ready for your deeds,--the light and heat of mighty thought and the +fire-breathing word,--then go into the world, that it may hear the +prophet! But in the world be holy and majestic, kiss not the sugared +lips of vice, beg not, take no reward,--whether the morning star invite +you with its glow, or terrible be the tyranny of fate: be innocent as +the dove, and bold and brave as the eagle! + +And harmonious and soothing sounds will rise from your thundering +strings; in these sounds the slave will forget his torments, and King +Saul will listen to them, and you will bloom in life of high solemnity, +and for ever bright will be your open brow and piercing, flaming eye! + +But if you are filled with the earthly desire of praise and +pleasure,--gather not rich gifts upon the altar of your God: He will +ungraciously look upon you, will not accept your cunning offerings; +smoke and thunder will disperse them,--and the priest will recede, +trembling with fear and shame. + + + + + Mikhaíl Yúrevich Lérmontov. (1814-1841.) + + + Lérmontov was born in the house of his grandmother, who brought him up + after the early death of his mother. Up to his tenth year he was + educated at home, in the country, studying several modern languages + and Greek. In 1826 he was taken to Moscow and placed in the Boarding + School for Young Noblemen, which was connected with the university. He + here distinguished himself as a student, but was much ridiculed by his + mates on account of his awkward manner and unattractive exterior. This + led him to withdraw from their company as much as possible, and to + frequent solitary spots. He read a great deal, but his favourite + author was Byron, whose life he set up as an example for himself to + follow. Having been expelled from the university for some scandalous + pranks, he entered in 1832 the School of the Guard Cadets at St + Petersburg, where he soon gained the reputation of a clever poet of + immodest verses. After graduation he passed his life in a whirl of + society pleasures at St. Petersburg and at Tsárskoe Seló. Púshkin’s + death, in 1837, roused Lérmontov from his inactivity. The poem, _On + the Death of the Poet_, which he then wrote, and which was spread over + Russia in a large number of manuscript copies, caused a sensation in + higher society, and he was banished for it to the Caucasus, but was + soon returned to the army. Lérmontov was at that time little known to + the public at large, though his poem “Borodinó” had just appeared, as + he kept himself aloof from the literary coteries. He first attracted + universal attention by his _Ballad of the Tsar Iván Vasílevich_, after + which followed a long series of his famous poems, and the prose novel + _The Hero of our Time_. In 1840 he was again banished to the Caucasus + for having fought a duel, but the next year he was killed in another + duel with a fellow-officer. + + Lérmontov had displayed unusual talent before the age of twenty, and + before his twenty-eighth year he had achieved a reputation that is + hardly second to Púshkin’s. His fervid imagination led him to add to + his fashionable Byronian mood a charm entirely his own: his melancholy + and pessimism, which find their most beautiful expression in his long + poem, _The Demon_, do not leave the reader disheartened and + disappointed, but rather invite to pensive meditation. His poetry + gives the impression of having no relation to active life; it seems as + though the questions of the day did not exist for him. This is partly + due to the fact that he stood aside from the literary circles, but + more especially because he wrote at a time when the application of art + to life had not yet become the watchword of Russian poets. He + therefore characterises the transition period from Púshkin to Gógol. + He was entirely under the influence of Byron, without, however, + inheriting his political and humanitarian ideals. + + There are several translations of his prose tale: _Sketches of Russian + Life in the Caucasus_, by a Russe (a literary forgery), London, 1853; + _A Hero of Our Times_, now first translated into English, London, + 1854; _The Hero of Our Days_, from the Russian, by T. Pulszky (in The + Parlour Library), London, [1854]; _A Hero of Our Time_, from the + Russian, by R. I. Lipmann, London, [1886]; Russian Reader: + _Lermontoff’s Modern Hero_, with English translation and biographical + sketch, by Ivan Nestor-Schnurmann, Cambridge University Press, 1899. + _Taman_ (part of _Hero of Our Time_) was also given in Railway and + General Automatic Library, London, [1892]. _The Demon_ has been + translated twice: _The Demon_, translated from the Russian, by A. + Condie Stephen, London, 1875, 2nd ed., 1881, 3rd ed., 1886; _The Demon + of Lermontoff_, translated from the Russian, by Francis Storr, London, + 1894. The _Mtsyri_ has appeared under the name, _The Circassian Boy_, + translated through the German, by S. S. Conant, Boston, 1875. + + The following separate poems have been translated into English: _The + Gifts of Terek_, by T. B. Shaw, in Edinburgh Blackwood Magazine, vol. + liv.; _Rememberest thou the day_, by W. R. Alger, in _The Poetry of + the Orient_, Boston, 1865; _Gifts of the Terek_, _The Cup of Life_, + _Cossack Cradlesong_, _The Prisoner_, by A. E. Staley, in Blackwood’s + Magazine, vol. cxxxvi.; _God’s Presence in Nature_, _Clouds_, _The Cup + of Life_, _The Bark_, _The Dispute_, _Circassian Song_, _Cossack + Cradlesong_, _The Prisoner_, _The Deserter_, _The Dream_, _Stanzas_, + _The Nun’s Song_, _Prayer_, _The Branch from Palestine_, by C. T. + Wilson, in _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887; _The Angel_, _The Voyage_, + _Prayer_, _Thanksgiving_, _On Death of Púshkin_, _Dream_, _Clouds_, + _How Weary_, _Alone I pass along the lonely road_, _Men and Waves_, + _The Queen of the Sea_, _The Prophet_, _When my native land_, _To + ----_, _The Dagger_, _Not for Thee_, _Dispute_, _“Why?” Moscow_, in J. + Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_, London, 1891; in Free Russia have + appeared: by G. R. Tomson, _The Poet_, in vol. i., No. 6; by Mary + Grace Walker, _The Death of Pushkin_, in vol. x., Nos. 6 and 7, _My + Neighbour_, in vol. xi., No. 1, _My Country_, ib., No. 4; by Mrs. Ch. + Sidgwick, _At a Ball_, ib., No. 2; in The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society have been published: by F. P. Marchant, _The Angel_, _The + Prayer_, in No. 11, _The Branch from Palestine_, and _Gratitude_, in + No. 16, _Cossack Cradlesong_, in No. 25, _Ballad of the Tsar Ivan + Vasilevich_, in No. 26; by Miss G. Shepherd, _Oh, he was born for + happiness, for hope_, in No. 13; by A. C. Coolidge, _Alone I wander + out along the road_ and _The Angel_, in No. 14 (given before in + Harvard Monthly Magazine, 1895); by Mrs. Heath, _The Sail_, in No. 19; + by J. Pollen, _The Gifts of the Terek_, in No. 20; by Anna Laura K. + Bezant, _On life’s road I wander, lone and dreaming_, in No. 21; in + the Library of the World’s Best Literature is given _The Cloud_, by N. + H. Dole, and are reprinted _The Prisoner_ and _The Cup of Life_, by + Staley, and _The Angel_, by Pollen. + + + FROM “A HERO OF OUR TIMES” + + MAKSÍM MAKSÍMYCH + +Leaving Maksím Maksímych, I rode at a rapid gait through the Térek and +Daryál cañons, breakfasted in Kazbék, drank tea at Lára, and hastened +away for supper to Vladikavkáz. + +I stopped at the inn where all passengers stop----I was told that I +should have to pass three days longer here, since the chance-team had +not yet returned from Ekaterinográd and, consequently, could not start +on its return journey. + +The first day I passed lonely. Early in the morning of the next day a +vehicle drove into the yard. “Ah, Maksím Maksímych!” We met like old +friends. I offered him my room; he accepted it without ceremony, even +clapped me on my shoulder and curved his mouth in the manner of a smile. +What a queer fellow! + +Maksím Maksímych was well versed in the culinary art: he could broil a +pheasant remarkably well, superbly seasoned it with cucumber sauce, and +I must confess that without him I should have been obliged to live on +dry food. A bottle of Kakhetine wine helped us to forget the modest +number of our dishes, of which there was but one, and lighting our pipes +we seated ourselves,--I at the window, he at the stove, for it was a +damp and cold day. We were silent. + +We sat for a long time. A few vehicles with dirty Armenians drove into +the yard of the inn, and behind them--an empty carriage. + +“Thank the Lord!” said Maksím Maksímych, approaching the window. “What a +fine carriage!” he added----“Who can it be? Let us go and find out.” + +We went into the corridor. A lackey was dragging, with the help of the +driver, some portmanteaus into a room. + +“Listen, friend,” the staff-captain asked him, “to whom does this +magnificent carriage belong?----Eh? A fine carriage!” + +The lackey did not turn around, but muttered something as he opened the +portmanteau. Maksím Maksímych grew angry. He touched the rude fellow on +the shoulder and said to him: “I ’m talking to you, my dear fellow.” + +“To whom the carriage belongs? To my master?” + +“And who is your master?” + +“Pechórin.” + +“You don’t say? Pechórin? Oh, good God! Did n’t he serve in the +Caucasus?” exclaimed Maksím Maksímych, pulling me by the sleeve. Joy +glistened in his eyes. + +“I think he did, but I have not been long with him.” + +“Well, that ’s it! Grigóri Aleksándrovich? That ’s his name? Your master +and I have been friends,” he added, giving the lackey a friendly slap on +the shoulder that made him stagger. + +“Excuse me, sir, you are in my way,” he said, knitting his brow. + +“How funny you are, friend! You must know that your master and I have +been bosom friends and have lived together. But what has become of him?” + +The servant announced that Pechórin would remain for supper and the +night at Colonel N.’s. + +“Won’t he come here in the evening?” said Maksím Maksímych. “Or, are n’t +you going down to see him for something or other? If you are, tell him +that Maksím Maksímych is here,--he knows,--I ’ll give you eight +grívenniks[7] for vódka.”[8] + +The lackey made a scornful grimace when he heard of such a modest +promise, but he assured Maksím Maksímych that he would carry out his +order. + +“He ’ll come right away!” Maksím Maksímych said to me, with a radiant +look. “I ’ll wait for him outside the gate. Oh, what a pity I don’t know +Colonel N.” + +Maksím Maksímych sat down on a bench in front of the gate, and I went to +my room. + +An hour later an invalid brought a boiling samovár and a teapot. “Maksím +Maksímych, don’t you want any tea?” I cried to him through the window. + +“Thank you, I don’t feel like it.” + +“Do take a glass! Look, it is already late and cold.” + +“No, thank you.” + +“Well, as you please!” I began to drink tea myself; some ten minutes +later the old fellow came into the room. + +“You are right: it will be better to take some tea. I have been waiting, +but his man went to him long ago; evidently something has detained him.” + +He hurriedly sipped a cup, declined a second, and went again outside the +gate, somewhat disturbed. It was clear that Pechórin’s negligence +annoyed the old fellow, especially since he had only lately been telling +me of his friendship, and since he was so sure an hour ago that Pechórin +would hurry to see him, the moment he heard his name. + +It was late and dark when I again opened the window and began to call +Maksím Maksímych, saying that it was time to go to bed. He muttered +something through his teeth. I repeated the invitation, but he did not +answer. + +I lay down on the divan and covered myself with my cloak. I left a +candle on the oven-bench and fell asleep. I should have slept quietly if +Maksím Maksímych had not entered very late into the room and awakened +me. He threw down his pipe on the table, began to pace over the room and +to poke the fire; finally he lay down, but he coughed, spit, and tossed +for a long time. + +“Are bugs biting you?” I asked him. + +“Yes, bugs,” he answered, drawing a deep sigh. + +I awoke very early the next morning, but Maksím Maksímych had +anticipated me. I found him in front of the gate, seated on the bench. + +“I must go down to the Commandant,” he said, “so please send for me if +Pechórin should come.” + +I promised I would. He ran away as if his limbs had regained their +youthful vigour and flexibility. + +Less than ten minutes had passed when at the end of the square appeared +the man we were waiting for. He was walking with Colonel N., who brought +him to the inn, bade him good-bye, and returned to the fort. I +immediately sent the invalid for Maksím Maksímych. + +The horses were already hitched. The bells now and then tinkled over the +yoke, and the lackey had already twice approached Pechórin with the +report that all was ready, but Maksím Maksímych had not yet made his +appearance. Fortunately Pechórin was buried in meditation and was +looking at the blue crags of the Caucasus, and did not seem to be in a +hurry to leave. I went up to him. + +“If you will wait a little,” I said, “you will have the pleasure of +meeting an old friend of yours.” + +“Oh, that ’s so!” he answered rapidly. “I was told so yesterday; but +where is he?” + +I turned to the square and saw Maksím Maksímych running at full speed. A +few minutes later he was near us; he could hardly breathe; perspiration +ran down his face; wet tufts of grey hair stood out from under his cap +and stuck to his brow; his knees were trembling. He wanted to throw +himself on Pechórin’s neck, but the latter quite coldly, though with a +pleasant smile, stretched out his hand to him. The staff-captain was +stupefied for a moment, but then eagerly grasped his hand with both of +his: he could not speak. + +“How glad I am, dear Maksím Maksímych! Well, how are you getting along?” +Pechórin asked. + +“And thou? and you?” the old man muttered with tears in his eyes. “How +many years--how many days--but where are you going to?” + +“I am going to Persia, and still farther.” + +“Right away? Do stay here a while, my friend! Are we really going to +separate at once? We have not seen each other for so long.” + +“I must, Maksím Maksímych,” was his answer. + +“O Lord! Where are you hurrying so? I should like to tell you so much, +and ask you so much! Well, have you retired? What have you been doing?” + +“Having ennui!” Pechórin answered, smiling. + +“Do you remember our life in the fort? ’T was a fine country for +hunting! You were a passionate hunter! And Béla?” + +Pechórin grew slightly pale and turned away. + +“Yes, I remember!” he said, yawning forcedly. + +Maksím Maksímych began to entreat him to stay an hour or two with him. + +“We shall have a fine dinner,” he said. “I have two pheasants, and the +Kakhetine wine is excellent,--of course not what it is in Georgia, yet +of the best sort. We shall talk. You will tell me of your life in St. +Petersburg. Well, what do you say?” + +“Really, I have nothing to tell, dear Maksím Maksímych. Now good-bye, I +must go, I am in a hurry. Thank you for remembering me,” he added, +taking his hand. + +The old man knit his eyebrows. He was sad and angry, though he tried to +hide it. + +“Forget? No, I have forgotten nothing. Well, God be with you! I hoped to +meet you differently.” + +“Well, well!” said Pechórin, embracing him in a friendly manner. “Am I +not the same? What ’s to be done? Each one has his road laid out. God +knows if we shall ever meet again!” + +He was already in the carriage when he said this, and the driver was +arranging the reins. + +“Wait, wait!” Maksím Maksímych suddenly shouted, catching hold of the +door of the carriage: “I almost forgot. I have your papers, Grigóri +Aleksándrovich, and I have been dragging them along with me. I had hoped +to find you in Georgia, but by the will of God we have met here. What +shall I do with them?” + +“Whatever you please!” answered Pechórin. “Good-bye!” + +“So you are making for Persia? When will you be back?” Maksím Maksímych +cried after him. + +The vehicle was far off, but Pechórin made a sign with his hand which +could be interpreted as follows: “Hardly! And there is no reason why I +should!” + +The tinkling of the bell and the rattling of the wheels on the flinty +road had long died away, but the poor old man was still standing in the +same place, buried in meditation. + +“Yes,” he said at last, trying to assume an indifferent look, though +from time to time a tear of indignation glittered on his eyelashes. “We +have been friends, but what does friendship nowadays mean? What interest +can he have in me? I am not rich, have no title, and am not a match for +him as to age. What a swell he has become since he has been in St. +Petersburg. What a carriage! How much luggage! And what a proud lackey!” +These words were pronounced with an ironical smile. “Tell me,” he +continued, turning towards me: “What do you think about it? What demon +carries him now to Persia? It ’s ridiculous, upon my word, ridiculous! I +always knew that he was a flighty man upon whom one could not rely. But, +really, it ’s a pity he should end so badly,--it can’t be otherwise! I +always said it does no good to forget old friends!” + +Here he turned away to conceal his agitation, and began to pace up and +down the yard, near his vehicle, as if to examine the wheels, while his +eyes kept filling with tears. + +“Maksím Maksímych,” I said, walking over to him, “what kind of papers +are those that Pechórin has left with you?” + +“God knows! Some memoirs.” + +“What will you do with them?” + +“What! I ’ll have them made into cartridges.” + +“You had better give them to me.” + +He looked at me in wonderment, muttered something through his teeth, and +began to rummage through his portmanteau. Then he took out a notebook, +threw it contemptuously on the floor, then another, a third, a tenth, +and they had all the same fate: there was something childish in his +anger; I was amused, and I pitied him. + +“Here they are,” said he. “I congratulate you with your find.” + +“And I may do with them what I wish?” + +“As far as I am concerned, you may print them in newspapers. What do I +care? What am I to him? Neither a friend, nor a relative. It is true, we +have lived a long time together under the same roof. But there are many +others with whom I have lived!” + +I grabbed the books and carried them quickly away, fearing that the +captain might regret his action. They announced to us soon after that +the carriage would start in an hour. I gave orders to pack. The captain +entered the room as I was putting on my cap. He was evidently not +getting ready to travel; he had a kind of a forced, cold look. + +“Are n’t you going, Maksím Maksímych?” + +“No, sir.” + +“How so?” + +“I have not yet seen the Commandant, and I have to hand over to him some +Crown goods.” + +“But you have been with him?” + +“Yes, I have, that ’s so,” he said, hesitatingly, “but he was not at +home, and I did not wait for his return.” + +I understood him--the poor old man had, probably for the first time in +his life, neglected his official duties for private reasons, as they say +in chancery language, and how he was rewarded for it! + +“Very sorry, Maksím Maksímych, that we are to part before our time.” + +“We uncouth old men can’t keep up with you! You are a worldly, proud +young set. As long as you are under Circassian bullets, you are +passable, but when you meet one of our kind later, you are ashamed to +stretch out your hand to him. + +“I have not deserved these reproaches, Maksím Maksímych.” + +“I should not have mentioned it, if I had not been egged on. As for you, +I wish you good luck and a happy journey.” + +We parted quite dryly. Good Maksím Maksímych became a stubborn, +quarrelsome staff-captain! Why? Because Pechórin, in his +absent-mindedness or for some other reason, stretched out his hand to +him, when he was ready to fall around his neck. It is sad to see a young +man lose all his best hopes and dreams, when the rose-coloured glass is +taken away from him through which he had been looking at human acts and +feelings, though there is hope that he will exchange his old illusions +for new ones, not less transitory, but also not less sweet. But what is +to take their place in a man of Maksím Maksímych’s years? The heart +involuntarily becomes hardened, and the soul closes up. + +I travelled by myself. + + [7] A grívennik is equal to ten kopeks, or about five cents. + + [8] Native brandy. + + + FROM “THE DEMON” + + I + + A sombre fiend, a spirit banished, + Was flying o’er this world of sin; + While thoughts of better days, now vanished, + Upon his brain were crowding in-- + Those days, when in the home of light + Midst cherubim he too was bright. + The time was when the comet fleeting, + Its soft caressing smile of greeting + To interchange with him was proud; + When, through the never-ending cloud, + He followed curiously the trace + Of where the caravans had moved + Of stars, whose paths were lost in space,-- + When he believed and when he loved. + A happy first-born of creation, + He knew no thought of fear or doubt: + Existence then was his, without + The weight of ages of damnation---- + And much and much,--but no, not all, + Had he the strength that dared recall. + + II + + Through earthly deserts long he sped, + Without a refuge or an aim. + The ages after ages fled; + Like minute after minute, came + Recurring ceaselessly the same. + In this mean world o’er which he lorded + No ill he sowed, relief afforded; + For nowhere he resistance met + That stood against the snares he set. + Sin did but weariness beget. + + III + + Now, o’er the Caucasus, on high, + Was Eden’s outcast flying by. + Kazbék, beneath, with diamond light + Of everlasting snow shines blinding; + And deep below, a streak of night, + Like some dark cleft, the snake’s delight, + In endless curves the Daryál’s winding + And Térek like a lion springing, + With bristling mane, in fury roars; + The beast of prey, the bird, high winding + Its flight in azure where it soars, + Have heard the cry his waves give forth, + And little golden clouds there are + From southern lands,--ay, from afar, + To follow on the journey north. + The cliffs in serried masses seem, + Replete with some mysterious dream, + To bend their heads above the stream, + And watch his waters as they gleam + Perched on the rock, the castle tower, + That stands on Caucasus to wait, + A giant guardian at the gate, + Seems sternly through the mist to glower, + And wild and wonderful about + Was all God’s world; but that proud sprite + With but a glance of scorn looked out + On all his God had wrought in might; + His lofty brow did naught express + Except the void of nothingness. + + IV + + Before him now another scene + Had living beauties to display, + Where Georgian valleys robed in green, + Stretched outward like a carpet, lay. + One of earth’s happy fertile nooks + Where column-like the ruins stand; + O’er stones of every hue, the brooks + Run downward babbling through the land. + The nightingales among the roses + Sing tuneful love in accents fond + To graceful mates that ne’er respond; + The plane-tree’s spreading shade discloses + The spot where ivy thick reposes; + Here gorges where from burning day + The timid deer lie hid away; + And light, and life, and leaves that rustle, + And voices’ hundred-sounding bustle, + And plants whose thousand breaths compete, + And fierce voluptuous noonday heat; + And nights whose aromatic dew + Distils a freshness ever new; + And stars that are as bright as eyes, + As glances of the Georgian maid. + But nature in all charm arrayed + To no new throb of life gave rise + Within that outlaw’s sterile breast, + Save for a hostile, cold unrest; + And that which here he contemplated, + He looked with scorn upon and hated. + + --Transl. by A. C. Coolidge (unpublished). + + + DISPUTE + + Once, before a tribal meeting + Of the mountain throng, + Kazbék-hill with Shat-the-mountain + Wrangled loud and long. + “Have a care, Kazbék, my brother,” + Shat, the grey-haired, spoke; + “Not for naught hath human cunning + Bent thee to the yoke. + Man will build his smoky cabins + On thy hillside steep; + Up thy valley’s deep recesses + Ringing axe will creep; + Iron pick will tear a pathway + To thy stony heart, + Delving yellow gold and copper + For the human mart. + Caravans, e’en now, are wending + O’er thy stately heights, + Where the mists and kingly eagles + Wheeled alone their flights. + Men are crafty; what though trying + Proved the first ascent!-- + Many-peopled, mark, and mighty + Is the Orient.” + + “Nay, I do not dread the Orient,” + Kazbék, answering, jeers; + “There mankind has spent in slumber + Just nine hundred years. + Look, where ’neath the shade of plane-trees + Sleepy Georgians gape, + Spilling o’er their broidered clothing + Foam of luscious grape! + See, ’mid wreaths of pipe-smoke, lying + On his flowered divan, + By the sparkling pearly fountain + Dozeth Teheran! + Lo! around Jerusalem’s city, + Burned by God’s command + Motionless, in voiceless stillness, + Deathlike, lies the land. + + “Farther off, to shade a stranger, + Yellow Nilus laves, + Glowing in the glare of noonday, + Steps of royal graves. + Bedouins forget their sorties + For brocaded tents, + While they count the stars and sing of + Ancestral events. + All that there the vision greeteth + Sleeps in prized repose; + No! the East will ne’er subdue me! + Feeble are such foes!” + “Do not boast thyself so early,” + Answered ancient Shat; + “In the North, look! ’mid the vapours, + Something rises! What?” + + Secretly the mighty Kazbék + At this warning shook, + And, in trouble, towards the nor’ward + Cast a hurried look. + As he looks in perturbation, + Filled with anxious care, + He beholds a strange commotion, + Hears a tumult there. + Lo! from Ural to the Danube, + To the mighty stream, + Tossing, sparkling in the sunlight, + Moving regiments gleam; + Glancing wave the white-plumed helmets + Like the prairie grass, + While, ’mid clouds of dust careering, + Flashing Uhlans pass. + Crowded close in serried phalanx + War battalions come; + In the van they bear the standards, + Thunders loud the drum; + Streaming forth like molten copper + Batteries, rumbling, bound; + Smoking just before the battle + Torches flare around; + Skilled in toils of stormy warfare, + Heading the advance, + See! a grey-haired general guides them, + Threat’ning in his glance. + Onwards move the mighty regiments + With a torrent’s roar; + Terrible, like gathering storm-clouds, + East, due east, they pour. + + Then, oppressed with dire forebodings, + Filled with gloomy dreams, + Strove Kazbék to count the foemen, + Failed to count their streams. + Glancing on his tribal mountains, + Sadly gloomed the hill; + Drew across his brows the mistcap, + And for aye was still. + + --From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_. + + ─────── + + Alone I wander out along the road; + The stony way gleams through the mist afar; + The night is calm; the waste lists to its God; + And star is speaking unto star. + + In heaven wondrousness and grandeur reign; + The earth sleeps in a glow of soft blue sky. + Then why do I feel such distress, such pain? + What have I to await? or what regret have I? + + Already I await no more from life; + And nothing in the past do I regret. + I seek for freedom, and an end to strife; + I only wish to sleep and to forget. + + But not as in the tomb’s too chilly rest, + My slumber through the ages I conceive + With all Life’s vigour throbbing in my breast-- + That with my breathing it should gently heave,-- + + That all the day and night, to soothe my ear, + A tender voice to me of love should sing; + And I must have, in green for ever near, + A dark oak bending o’er me, murmuring. + + --Transl. by A. C. Coolidge, in The Harvard Monthly, 1895, and in + The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 14. + + + THE SAIL + + A solitary sail is gleaming, + While, through the haze of th’ azure, she, + In chase of chance’s fortune seeming, + Far from a cherished home may be. + + The waves leap up,--the wind is blowing, + The mast is bending low and creaks,-- + Alas! from happiness not going, + It is not happiness she seeks. + + Beneath her prow blue floods are swelling, + Above her glides the sunlit fleece, + But still she prays for storms, rebelling-- + As if in storms there can be peace. + + --Transl. by Mrs. Heath, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, + No. 19. + + + THE PRAYER + + In life’s hard, trying moments, + With sorrow in my breast, + I breathe a prayer most wonderful, + Which ever brings me rest. + + There is a power of blessedness + In those sweet words enshrined, + Thought cannot grasp their sacred charm + That calms the anxious mind. + + Doubt stays no more, the soul is free, + Her burden rolls away, + Her faith renewed, tears bring relief, + When this sweet prayer I pray. + + --Transl. by F. P. Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society, No. 11. + + + THE BRANCH OF PALESTINE + + Branch of Palestine, the story + Of thy birth and beauty, say + Of what hill and vale the glory + Were thy leaves and blossoms gay? + + Thee, by Jordan’s limpid fountains, + Did the Eastern sunbeam bless? + Thee, on Lebanon’s great mountains, + Did the night-wind’s love caress? + + Salem’s sons, with sorrow smitten, + As they twined thy leaves with care-- + Sang they songs, in old times written? + Breathed they then a gentle prayer? + + Is thy parent-palm yet living + Where the summer sun beats down, + Still to desert-travellers giving + Shade beneath her broad-leafed crown? + + Or, thy faded palm-tree sighing, + Withered at thy parting, grieves, + While the thirsty dust is lying + Thickly on her yellow leaves? + + Whose the reverent hand that bore thee + From thy country to this place? + Wept he often, bending o’er thee? + Have those hot tears left their trace? + + Was he of God’s host the flower, + Shone his cheek with rapture bright, + Worthy heaven, like thee, each hour + In his God’s and comrades’ sight? + + Branch from Salem, guard unsleeping + Of the golden ikon fair, + Watch before the holiest keeping, + Thou art weighed with silent care! + + Beauteous twilight, lamp-beams o’er thee; + Full of peace and comfort, shine; + Ark and cross repose before thee, + Symbols of a love divine! + + --Transl. by F. P. Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society, No. 16. + + ─────── + + Remember’st thou the day when we-- + Late was the hour--were forced to part? + The night-gun boomed athwart the sea; + In painful silence beat each heart; + The lovely day found cloudy close; + A heavy mist the landscape palled; + And seemed it, when that shot arose, + An echo from the ocean called. + + Alone I wander by the flood; + And when a gun booms in its might, + I think in pain how we once stood + Together on that parting night. + And as the mournful echoes roll, + Muffled, along the fluid walls, + From out the caverns of my soul + Death answeringly calls and calls. + + --From W. R. Alger’s _The Poetry of the Orient_, 1865. + + + AT A BALL + + How oft, surrounded by the motley crowd, + Mid whirling dance, and din of music loud, + I sink my senses in a dream,-- + When phrased convention, polished fiction, fly + And all the men and women pass me by,-- + Like masks their faces seem. + + When my cold hands are met with colder still, + And callous city beauties touch me chill, + Bold but effete, with hollow cheer, + Then, to appearance wrapped in light and glare, + I cherish in my heart a fancy fair,-- + Echoes a bygone year. + + Forsaking all around, in heart and mind + I fly--a free, free bird--to things behind, + And see myself a child once more, + In places old and dear. The house o’erhead,-- + The garden path I see,--the ruined shed,-- + The pond well-weeded o’er: + + And see across the pond the village lie, + From clustered roof the smoke is rising high, + The mists from meadows far away! + I enter a dark alley: evening red + Blinks through the shrubs, and underneath my tread + The dead leaves rustling stray. + + Then a strange longing holds me,--yearning sore + For love,--my fancy’s love and nothing more:-- + She was a dream and yet my love! + Her sky-blue eyes could flash with silver flame, + Her rosy smile with kindling sweetness came, + Like sunrise through the grove. + + Thus, potent master of my fairyland, + Alone I pass my hours, and understand + The spell of those sweet days to save, + Unharmed, unstained by passion or by doubt, + Like some fair flowery islet, lying out + Where leaps the wild sea wave. + + But suddenly a jar renews my sense,-- + The happy, happy dream is frighted hence, + That gentle, uninvited guest. + And wild I long my steel-cold lines to fling + Upon the startled crowd, to smite and sting, + With anger from my breast. + + --Transl. by Mrs. Charlotte Sidgwick, in Free Russia, vol. xi., + No. 2. + + + DREAM + + ’Neath midday heat, in Dagestána’s Vale, + With leaden ball in breast I lifeless lay; + From a deep wound smoke rose upon the gale, + And drop by drop my life-blood ebbed away. + + Alone I lay upon the sandy slopes; + The craggy cliffs around me crowded steep; + The sunlight burned upon their yellow tops, + And burned on me who slept no mortal sleep. + + A dream I dreamed, and saw in sparkling bowers + An evening feast in my home,--far away,-- + Where young and lovely women, crowned with flowers, + Conversed of me in accents light and gay. + + But, in their happy talk not joining, one + Sat far apart, and plunged in thought she seemed; + And oh! the mystery knows God alone,-- + This was the dream her young soul sadly dreamed. + + She saw in vision Dagestána’s Vale, + Where on the slope a well-known body lay; + From the black wound smoke rose upon the gale, + And in cold streams the life-blood ebbed away. + + --From John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_. + + + + + Aleksyéy Vasílevich Koltsóv. (1808-1842.) + + + Koltsóv was the son of a burgher of Vorónezh who dealt in hides and + tallow. He received very little training in his coarse and ignorant + family, and at ten years of age went to a school just long enough to + learn to read and write. After that his father put him to work at his + business, but the boy found enough time to read some Russian fairy + tales and a few novels. Dmítriev’s poems, which fell into his hands, + gave him a taste for poetry, and a “Russian Prosody,” given him by a + local book-dealer, for the first time taught him the harmony of verse + and its technical structure. He at once began to compose poems in + imitation of such as he could procure, while a seminarist whose + acquaintance he cultivated corrected and guided his first attempts. In + 1831 Koltsóv went to Moscow where he was introduced to the critic + Byelínski, who at once recognised the unusual talent of the untutored + bard. After a second visit, in 1836, the two became staunch friends, + and under Byelínski’s influence Koltsóv produced the best of his + poems. He soon returned to the sordid surroundings of his native + place, and died shortly after of consumption. The striking + picturesqueness of his verse, which is based on the inimitable, + untranslatable diction of the peasant, has given rise to two + diametrically opposed views: according to the one, he is the popular + bard _par excellence_; according to the other, he has only made + artistic use of the peasant’s language for productions that are + eminently refined and, therefore, removed from the understanding of + the masses. + + In English translation have appeared: _Season of Love_, _A Prayer_, + _Two Lives_, _First Love_, in _A Russian Poet_, by W. R. S. Ralston, + in Fortnightly Review, vol. vi., 1866; _The Abundant Harvest_, _The + Mower_, _The Peasant Musing_, in _Russian Idylls_, by W. R. S. + Ralston, in Contemporary Review, vol. xxiii., 1874; _The Ploughman’s + Song_, _The Peasant’s Misgivings_, _The Orphan_, _Love’s Invitation_, + in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, 1887; _The Forest_, _Betrayed by a + Bride_, by I. H. Harrison, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. + 16, and _A Winter Wooing_, _The Mower_, by Mrs. Rosa Newmarch, _ib._, + No. 30. + + + FIRST LOVE + + Her whom I loved in early years + So well, so tenderly,--who filled + With a first passion’s hopes and fears + A heart which time has not yet stilled,-- + Can I forget her? Day by day I strive + Her well-loved image from my mind to drive; + To find new dreams my old dreams to efface, + And let another love my early love replace. + But all in vain. I strive and strive, and yet + Whate’er I do I never can forget. + When in the silent hours of night I sleep, + She comes in dreams; once more I see her stand + Beside my couch; once more her accents steep + My suffering soul in bliss; once more her hand + In mine so gently, mournfully, she lays, + While her dark eyes on mine in sadness gaze. + Speed, kindly Time, my thoughts from her to sever, + Or set me free with her to live for ever. + + --Transl. by W. R. S. Ralston, in Fortnightly Review, 1866 (vol. + vi.). + + + THE ABUNDANT HARVEST + + I + + With a rosy flame the dawn burns on high, but the fog still broods over + the face of the earth; + Till the day has caught the fire of the sun, and rolled up the mists + higher than the tops of the hills, + And has pressed them into a black cloud. The black cloud has begun to + knit its brows,-- + Has begun to knit its brows, as if reflecting, as though musing upon + the place of its birth, + As though remembering how the wild winds will drive it before them + across the face of the wide world. + Then it arms itself with the hurricane and the thunderbolt, with the + lightning’s flash and the bow of the cloud. + It has taken up arms, and flown abroad, and struck its stroke, and + poured itself forth + In a torrent of tears, in a flood of rain, over the copious bosom of + the earth. + + II + + Now from heaven’s heights the dear sun looks down. The earth a + plenteous draught has drunk. + On their corn-fields and gardens, and meadows green, the rustic folk + cannot gaze enough. + For the grace of God these rustic folk have waited long with trembling + and prayer. + Together with the spring there have come to life the secret thoughts of + their quiet minds. + Thought the first: To pour into sacks the grain in the bins, and to set + their carts in order. + Thought the second: Forth from the village by night to drive their line + of carts. + Thought the third----When of this they thought, to God the Lord arose + the prayers. + With early dawn have they gone afield. There in handfuls heaped each + scatters the grain, furrows the soil with the ploughshare’s blade, + or rips it across with the harrow’s tooth. + + III + + I will go and gaze with gladdened eye at what God has sent to men for + their toil. + Above my waist the large-grained rye rises, then dreamily bends well + nigh to the ground. + On every side the corn, guest sent by God, greets with a smile the + joyful day. + Over it the breeze floats lustrously, streaming this way and that a + wave of gold. + Now in whole families the peasants commence their harvest, cutting + close to the roots the stalks of the lofty rye. + Into close-packed mows are the sheaves collected; from the lines of + carts sounds music all the night long. + On every side do the stacks erect their heads in the barnyards,--taking + up much room, like nobles of yore in their robes of state. + + IV + + The dear sun sees that the harvest is done; so colder gleam his last + autumnal rays. + But with warm light glows the peasant’s taper--burning before the + pictured form of the Mother of God. + + --Transl. by W. R. S. Ralston, in The Contemporary Review, 1874 + (vol. xxiii.). + + + THE FOREST + + IN MEMORY OF PÚSHKIN + + What does the silent wood + Dream of so pensively? + What is the sorrow that + Rides in its mystery? + + Why dost thou, Knightly One, + Under its charm’s spell, + Head undefended + Hold ’gainst the wind-stroke,-- + + Standing there shamedly + Letting the storm-clouds + As they pass momently + Burst on thee savagely? + + Thy helmet of green leaves + Bound fastly together + Is whirled from thee far off + And scattered to dust; + + Thy boughs, as a mantle falls, + Lie all around thee; + Thou standest ashamedly, + Forced to submit thee. + + Where hath vanished now + Speech that was mighty, + Strength that was prouder than + All a king’s bravery? + + A night there hath been for thee, + A calm night within which + Thou heardest the nightingale’s + Deluge of song-- + + A day there hath been for thee + Triumphant, forgetless-- + A friend and an enemy + Sought thy cool freshness; + + ’T was late in the evening, + And loud blew the storm-blast + Of him that was speaking + Unto thy detractor. + + His wrath drove the clouds off + That round thee had gathered, + His love clung around thee + Like wind-gusts, but warmer. + + Thou said’st to the other, + With voice that changed loudly, + “Go, fall back beyond me! + Go, leave me in peace!” + + That voice of his dizzied, + As tone on tone sounded; + Thy very depths trembled, + Their stoutest trunks reeling. + + Then, startled from silence, + To life thou awakest; + A whistling of tempest + Re-echoed throughout thee; + + ’T is the cry of the wood-sprite, + A witch’s note shrilling, + Until the loud rumble + Is borne away seaward. + + Where now all thy glory + Of verdure and leaf? + Thou ’st put on dark clothing + Of rain-mist and grief; + + Wild art thou and silent, + But, when the wind quickens, + Thy plaint sadly peals out + For him lost untimely. + + And so, thou dark forest, + Life-long hast thou harassed + The Knightly, the Noble, + To combat for thee. + + Against thee prevailed not + Those stronger than thou art; + Life’s autumn in him, though, + Seemed cruelly short. + + The woods know in dreamland + That forces of evil + Their malice did spend on + Who least had deserved it: + + From off Knightly shoulders + A head had been struck-- + Not by a hero’s hand, + But by a recreant. + + --Transl. by I. H. Harrison, in The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society, No. 16. + + + BETRAYED BY A BRIDE + + Warm the summer sun in heaven, + But for me no heat is given! + Frozen is the very heart’s blood, + Through the bride that played me false. + + Grief’s black pall hath fallen o’er me, + On my sorrow-bowed-down head: + Mortal anguish tears my soul, and + From this body would it break. + + Neighbours asked have I to help me; + No man gave me aught but laughter; + Then, to the grave of either parent-- + Neither heard the voice I called with. + + Light then changed for me to darkness, + Senseless on the ground I lay, + Dull the night, until a tempest + Roused me from the tombstone cold. + + Raged the storm--a horse I saddled, + Bent on riding--God knows where-- + Life is heartless toil to laugh at, + Man’s fate evil alone to share. + + --Transl. by I. H. Harrison, in The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society, No. 16. + + + THE MOWER + + I can’t understand it, + I can’t make it out-- + Yet why I can’t see + How it all came about? + In an unlucky day, + In an ill hour, alack, + I came into this world + With no shirt to my back! + Yet my grand-dad’s broad shoulders + Are mine, as you see; + And my mother’s deep chest; + In my cheeks flowing free + Burns the blood of my sire, + Like milk set afire + By dawn’s crimson light; + And my locks lie in clusters + As black as the night. + Yet, whatever I do-- + Oh, it never goes right! + In an unlucky day, + In an ill hour, alack, + I came into this world + With no shirt to my back! + + There’s darling Grunyúsha, + The Stárosta’s daughter-- + Well, all through the spring + Did I patiently court her; + But he, the old churl, + Was finely put out! + To whom has he planned + That he ’ll marry the girl? + Oh, I can’t understand + How it all came about. + Does he think, the old ass, + I was after his money? + Let him stick to his brass + If he give me my honey-- + ’T is for her that I pine. + Oh, her face is bright + And as rosy as sunrise, + Her rounded cheeks mellow, + And the flash of her eyes + Might drive a young fellow + Clean out of his wits. + + Ah, ’t was only last night + That she wept so for me, + But her tears were in vain. + For her dad said downright + That it never could be. + Shall I never again + From my sorrow be free? + Come, I ’ll buy a new scythe, + And I ’ll sharpen it well, + Aye, its edge I will whet, + Ere I bid a farewell + To my own native place. + Nay, Grúnya, don’t fret, + Don’t worry, dear maid. + Though keen is the blade, + I ’ll not cut myself down; + Good-bye, little town. + You, hard parent, good-bye! + To a land far away + Will the young mower hie. + Down the Don’s bank I ’ll stray + Till I reach the quayside, + Where the suburbs stand gay + And the Steppe stretches wide. + There, wherever I glance, + The tall plume-grass is blown. + O Steppe, thou, my own, + How thy fertile expanse + Lies green on each hand, + So free and so vast, + Till it reaches at last + To the Black Sea’s far strand! + I have come as thy guest, + But I come not alone, + I have brought thee a friend, + One, my closest and best. + See, my sharp scythe is here, + As myself he is dear. + Oh, from end to far end, + What a joy it will be + To wander with him + O’er the Steppe’s grassy sea! + + Swish, work away shoulders; + Swing arms to and fro, + While cool on my face + The light southern winds blow, + Refreshing and rippling + The Steppe’s endless space. + Now, scythe, hum a song, + Flash in circles thy blade; + How the long grass-ranks fall + As the steel moves along! + O ye poor blossoms all, + Your heads are low-laid! + Ye must dry up and fade + In the straight swathes of grass + As my young heart, alas, + Withers up for a maid,-- + And I languish for Grúnya! + I ’ll rake up the hay + Till so high my stack stands + That the wife of the Cossack + Must pay with both hands. + I shall sew up my pocket, + My treasure to guard, + Then, home I ’ll betake me, + To the Stárosta say: + “Though tears could not make thee + Give Grúnya away, + Thou art not so hard + But my good pieces may.” + + --Transl. by Mrs. Rosa Newmarch, in The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society, No. 30. + + + + + Nikoláy Vasílevich Gógol (--Yanóvski). (1809-1852.) + + + Gógol was born in the Government of Poltáva, in Little-Russia, and was + educated at home up to his twelfth year. His father was a landed + proprietor of more than ordinary culture, who had a private theatre at + his estate, on which were played Little-Russian comedies, some his + own. His grandfather had held an important post with the Zaporóg + Cossacks, and being an excellent story-teller, had imbued his grandson + with the spirit of the recent Cossack past. At the Gymnasium, Gógol + evinced little interest in his studies, but devoted himself with + enthusiasm to drawing and to the theatre which he himself created for + his schoolmates. He even then composed some comedies and edited a + manuscript periodical. After graduation he went to St. Petersburg in + search of some occupation, but found himself unfit for any work. He + also tried literature, and in 1829 appeared his romantic tale _Hans + Küchelgarten_. It was so severely criticised that Gógol bought up the + whole edition and committed it to the flames. He busied himself with + the history of Little-Russia, and shortly after he wrote his beautiful + _Evenings on the Farm near the Dikánka_, in which the idealisation of + the past and of his native country is already tempered by realism. + These _Evenings_ at once made him known, and he became intimate with + Zhukóvski and Púshkin. He dreamed of devoting himself to history, but + prolonged labour was distasteful to him, and he did not go beyond + collecting material for his Little-Russian epic, _Tarás Búlba_. He + really obtained a professorship at the university, but his + professional career was a failure. Instead, he brought out a series of + admirable stories, such as _Old-fashioned Landed Proprietors_, _The + Nose_, _The Phaeton_, _The Mantle_, and his comedies, of which the + _Revizór_ has remained a classic in the Russian repertoire. He was now + completely launched into naturalism, and was at once recognized by the + critic Byelínski (see p. 205), as forming a new school in literature. + A few years later he gave to the world the first part of the _Dead + Souls_, in which he reached the highest point of his artistic + development. The plot of the story is simple: an unscrupulous + ex-official travels about the country to buy up peasants, that in + reality are dead but before the Government are still accounted alive + until the following census and are subject to taxes; by nominally + transferring them to his own estate, he is able to mortgage them at + the rate of three hundred roubles for each “soul.” This plot served + Gógol as a thread on which to string his different types of people. In + 1836 Gógol went abroad, and slowly succumbed to a species of + melancholia, which showed itself in an increased tendency to + mysticism. This led him to burn the greater part of what was to form + the second book of the _Dead Souls_, and to practice + self-chastisement. + + In English translation have appeared: _The Portrait_, in Blackwood’s + Edinburgh Magazine and in Living Age, 1847; _Home Life in Russia_, by + a Russian Noble (a literary forgery), 2 vols., London, 1854; _Cossack + Tales_, translated by G. Tolstoy, London, [1860]; _St. John’s Eve and + Other Stories_, translated by Miss I. F. Hapgood, New York, [1886], + and London, 1887; _Taras Bulba_, by I. F. Hapgood, New York, [1886], + (Lovell’s Library, No. 1016), and London, 1887; _Tchitchikoff’s + Journey; or, Dead Souls_, by I. F. Hapgood, New York, [1886], and + London, 1887; also _Dead Souls_, 1887 and 1888, and _Taras Bulba_, + 1887 and 1888, published by Vizetelly; _A May Evening_, in + Cosmopolitan, vol. iii.; _The Cloak_, in Short Stories, 1891, and + (with _The Portrait_ and _Old-fashioned Farmers_) in _Wayward Dosia_, + by Gréville, Chicago, 1891; _Inspector General, or, Revizór_, + translated by A. A. Sykes, London, 1892, 1893; _The Inspector_, a + comedy, translated by T. Hart Davies, London, 1892; _On Christmas + Eve_, translated by F. Volkhovsky, in Free Russia, vol. x., No. 12; + _Marriage_ and _A Madman’s Diary_, in the _Humour of Russia_, by E. L. + Voynich, London and New York, 1895; extracts from _The Inspector_, and + from _Mirgorod_, translated by I. F. Hapgood, are given in the Library + of the World’s Best Literature. + + + THE DNIEPER + +Wonderful is the Dnieper in quiet weather when softly and smoothly he +hurries his full waters by forests and hills. He neither rustles, nor +thunders. You look at him, and you do not know whether his majestic +breadth is in motion, or not, and it looks as if he were all cast of +glass and as if his blue, mirrored path, measureless in breadth and +endless in length, meandered and wound over the wide green world. The +hot sun then joyfully looks down from his height and plunges his beams +in the coolness of the glassy waters, and the woods of the shore are +brightly reflected therein. Green-locked ones! They crowd together with +the field flowers to the brink, and bending over look into the water, +and do not get tired looking at their bright image, and smile to it, and +greet it, shaking their branches. They dare not look into the middle of +the Dnieper; none but the sun and the blue sky look upon it; rarely a +bird flies to the middle of the Dnieper. Proud one! There is not a river +in the world like him. + +Wonderful, too, is the Dnieper in a warm summer night, when all is +asleep,--man, and beast, and bird,--and God alone majestically surveys +heaven and earth and majestically waves His garment. From the garment +fall stars; stars burn and gleam over the world, and all together are +reflected in the Dnieper. The Dnieper holds them all in his murky lap; +not one of them will escape him, unless it be dimmed in heaven. The +black forest, weighted down by sleeping ravens, and anciently disrupted +mountains hang down over him and attempt to cover him with their long +shadows. In vain! There is nothing in the world that could cover the +Dnieper. Ever blue, he spreads his gentle floods in the night as in the +day, and may be seen as far as the human eye can see. Proceeding in his +voluptuous course and hugging the shore in the coolness of the night, he +leaves behind him a silvery streak which flashes like the blade of a +Damascus sabre, but the blue one again falls asleep. Even then the +Dnieper is wonderful, and there is no river like him in the whole world! + +But when the grey clouds pass like mountains over the sky, the black +forest shakes to its roots, the oaks crack, and the lightnings, piercing +through the clouds, at once illumine the whole world,--then the Dnieper +is terrible! The mounds of water thunder as they beat against the +mountains, and with a splash and groan they rush back, and weep, and +lose themselves in the distance. Thus grieves an old Cossack mother as +she leads her son to the army: in his best spirits and boldly he rides +forth on his black charger, his arms akimbo, his cap poised jauntily; +but she sobs and runs after him, seizes him by his stirrup, catches his +bridle, and wrings her hands, and is dissolved in bitter tears. + + + THE REVIZÓR + + ACT I. (_room in the Burgomaster’s house_). SCENE 1. THE BURGOMASTER, + CURATOR OF CHARITABLE INSTITUTIONS, INSPECTOR OF SCHOOLS, JUDGE, + CAPTAIN OF POLICE, DOCTOR, TWO SERGEANTS OF POLICE + +_Burgomaster._ Gentlemen, I have called you together to give you a very +disagreeable piece of news: a Revizór is coming. + +_Judge._ What, a Revizór? + +_Curator._ What, a Revizór? + +_Burgomaster._ A Revizór from St. Petersburg, incognito, and with secret +instructions, if you please. + +_Judge._ I declare! + +_Curator._ Things have been too easy with us, so there it is. + +_Inspector._ Good gracious! With secret instructions! + +_Burgomaster._ I really had a presentiment of it: last night I did +nothing but dream of two extraordinary rats. I tell you, I never saw the +like of them; they were black and of unusual size. They came, nosed +around, and went away. I ’ll read to you the letter I received from +Andréy Ivánovich Chmýkhov whom you, Artémi Filíppovich (Curator), know. +This is what he writes: “Dear friend, and benefactor” (_mutters in a +whisper as he runs down the lines_)----“and to let you know.” Ah, here +it is: “among other things I hasten to inform you that an official is +here with instructions to inspect the whole Government, and especially +our county (_significantly raises his finger_). I have learned this from +most trustworthy people, although he passes himself for a private +individual. Knowing that, like all people, you have some peccadilloes, +for you are a clever fellow and don’t let things slip through your +fingers----” (_Stops._) Oh, that ’s private----“I advise you to take the +proper precaution, for he is likely to come any hour, if he has not +arrived yet and is not living somewhere incognito----Yesterday”----Oh, +these are family matters: “sister Anna Kirílovna has been visiting us +with her husband; Iván Kirílovich has grown very stout, and is all the +time playing the fiddle----” and so forth, and so forth. So that ’s the +way it stands! + +_Judge._ But that ’s an unusual affair. There must be something back of +it. + +_Inspector._ But what is that all for, Antón Antónovich (Burgomaster)? +Why is the Revizór coming to us? + +_Burgomaster_ (_sighing_). Why! It ’s evidently our fate! (_Sighing +again._) Thanks to the Lord, they have come down on other towns before +this; but now our turn has come. + +_Judge._ I think, Antón Antónovich, that there is a delicate reason of a +political nature behind all this. It ’s simply this: Russia, you see, is +about to wage war, and the Minister has sent a special official to find +out whether there is not any treason here. + +_Burgomaster._ What a guess! And you call yourself a clever man! Treason +in a county town! Does it lie on the border, eh? Why, you ’d have to +gallop three years from here to get to another country. + +_Judge._ No, let me tell you. You don’t----no, you don’t----The +government is pretty shrewd about things: never mind its being far away, +but the government is on the lookout. + +_Burgomaster._ Let it be or not, but I have given you warning, +gentlemen, so take notice! I, for my part, have taken some precautions, +and I advise you to do the same. Especially you, Artémi Filíppovich! No +doubt, the official will first of all want to inspect the charitable +institutions under your charge, and so you had better give everything a +decent appearance. Let there be clean caps, and don’t let the patients +look like blacksmiths, as they generally appear. + +_Curator._ Oh, that is not hard! I see no reason for not putting on +clean caps. + +_Burgomaster._ Yes. And let there also be written over every bed in +Latin, or some other language----that ’s your business, Christian +Ivánovich,--the name of every illness: when any of them got ill, what +day of the month----It is not right for your patients to smoke such +strong tobacco that one has to sneeze upon entering. Yes, it also would +be better if there were not so many of them, for it will be ascribed to +improper care or the physician’s lack of skill. + +_Curator._ Oh, Christian Ivánovich and I have taken our measures in +regard to the doctoring: the nearer to nature, the better; we do not +employ expensive medicaments. A man is a simple affair: if he is to die, +he ’ll die anyway; and if he is to get well, he ’ll get well anyway. +Besides, it would not be an easy matter for Christian Ivánovich to carry +on a conversation with them, he does not know a word of Russian. + +(_Christian Ivánovich emits a sound, somewhere between_ ee _and_ eh.) + +_Burgomaster._ I should advise you also, Ammós Fédorovich, to direct +your attention to the court-house. In the antechamber, where the people +wait with their petitions, your janitors have been raising geese with +their goslings that continually get between one’s legs. I admit it is +praiseworthy to raise your own geese, and there is no reason why +janitors should not rear them; only, don’t you know, it is n’t quite the +thing to raise them in that place----I had in mind to tell you that +before, but I somehow forgot. + +_Judge._ Well, I ’ll order them to be taken to the kitchen this very +day. Can’t you come and take dinner with me? + +_Burgomaster._ Then again, it ’s wrong for all kinds of rags to be hung +out in the court-room to get dry, and on the case with the documents +lies a hunting-whip. I know you are fond of the chase; but it would be +better for the time being to take it away, and as soon as the Revizór +has gone, I don’t see why you can’t hang it back there again. Then again +your assessor----, of course, he is a clever fellow; but there is an +odour about him as if he had just come out of a still,--that won’t do +either. I had intended to tell you about that long ago, but something or +other drew my attention away from it. There are means against it, if it +is, indeed, as he says, a natural odour with him: you might recommend +him to eat garlic, onions, or something else. In this case Christian +Ivánovich might help him with some of his medicaments. + +(_Christian Ivánovich emits the same sound as before._) + +_Judge._ No, you can’t drive it out of him: he says that his nurse once +hurt him when he was a baby, and ever since he has had a brandy smell +about him. + +_Burgomaster._ I only mention it to you. As to the internal disposition +and what Andréy Ivánovich in his letter calls “peccadilloes,” I can’t +say anything. Strange to say, there is not a man who has not some sin to +answer for. God Himself has arranged it so, and the followers of +Voltaire are in vain preaching against it. + +_Judge._ What do you call peccadilloes, Antón Antónovich? There are +peccadilloes and peccadilloes. I tell everybody openly that I take +bribes, but what bribes? Greyhound pups. That ’s an entirely different +matter. + +_Burgomaster._ Pups or anything else, it ’s bribes all the same. + +_Judge._ Not at all, Antón Antónovich. But suppose a man’s fur-coat +costs five hundred roubles, and his wife’s shawl---- + +_Burgomaster._ What of it if your bribes consist in greyhound pups? But +you don’t believe in God; you never go to church. I am, at least, firm +in my faith and attend church regularly every Sunday; whereas you----Oh, +I know you: when you begin to talk about the creation of the world, my +hair simply stands on end. + +_Judge._ I have reasoned it out all by myself, with my own intellect. + +_Burgomaster._ Well, in this case much intelligence is worse than none +at all. However, I only mentioned the County Court. To tell the truth, +there is not much likelihood of anybody’s looking in there: it ’s an +enviable place, and God Himself protects it. But you, Lúka Lukích, as +Inspector of Schools, must take especial care of the teachers. They are, +of course, knowing people, and have been educated in all kinds of +colleges, but they have very strange ways about them, no doubt +inseparable from their learned profession. One of them, for +example,--the one with the fat face, I can’t think of his name,--can’t +get along, upon standing on the platform, without making a grimace like +this (_imitates him_), then he begins to claw his beard under the +necktie. Of course, it does not matter much if he makes such a face to a +pupil of his, and maybe that is necessary, for I am not a judge of that; +but judge yourself,--if he should do so to a visitor, it might have a +bad effect: the Revizór, or someone else, might take it to himself. The +devil knows what that might lead to. + +_Inspector._ I declare I don’t know what to do. I have talked several +times to him about it. Only a few days ago, when the Marshal of the +Nobility entered his classroom, he made a face I had never seen before. +He did it from the goodness of his heart, but I had a reprimand for +instilling radical thoughts into the youths. + +_Burgomaster._ I must also draw your attention to the teacher of +history. He is a learned man, that ’s evident, and is chockful of +knowledge, only he lectures with such fervour that he forgets himself. I +once listened to his lecture: as long as he was talking of Assyrians and +Babylonians, things went tolerably well; but when he got to Alexander +the Great, I can’t tell you what became of him. I thought there was a +fire, upon my word! He ran down from the platform and with all his might +and main smashed a chair against the floor! I ’ll admit Alexander the +Great was a hero, but why break chairs over him? There is only a loss to +the Crown from it. + +_Inspector._ Yes, he is fiery! I have remarked so to him several times. +He says: “I don’t care, I ’ll not spare my life for the sake of +science!” + +_Burgomaster._ Yes, such is the inexplicable law of fate: a clever +fellow is either a drunkard, or he makes faces so that you have to carry +out the holy images. + +_Inspector._ God preserve us from being schoolmasters. You are afraid of +everything! Everybody meddles with you, everybody wants to show that he, +too, is a clever fellow. + +_Burgomaster._ All that could pass,--but the accursed incognito! He ’ll +suddenly poke in his nose: “Ah, there you are, my darling! Who,” will he +say, “is the judge here?”--“Lyápkin-Tyápkin.”--“Fetch me in +Lyápkin-Tyápkin! And who is the Curator of the Charitable +Institutions?”--“Zemlyaníka.”--“Fetch in Zemlyaníka!” That ’s what is +bad. + + + SCENE 2. THE SAME AND THE POSTMASTER + +_Postmaster._ Tell me, gentlemen, what is it,--what official is coming? + +_Burgomaster._ Have n’t you heard? + +_Postmaster._ I have heard from Petr Ivánovich Bobchínski. He was just +in my office. + +_Burgomaster._ Well, what do you think of it? + +_Postmaster._ What I think? Why, there will be a war with Turkey. + +_Judge._ That ’s it! I thought so myself. + +_Burgomaster._ Well, you ’re both wrong. + +_Postmaster._ I insist, with Turkey. It ’s all the Frenchmen’s doing. + +_Burgomaster._ Nonsense, war with Turkey! It ’s we who ’ll catch it, not +the Turks. So much is certain; I have a letter. + +_Postmaster._ If that ’s the case, there will be no war with Turkey. + +_Burgomaster._ Well, how do you feel about that, Iván Kuzmích? + +_Postmaster._ How I feel? How do you feel, Antón Antónovich? + +_Burgomaster._ How I feel? Not exactly afraid, but just a little shaky. +The shopkeepers and townspeople worry me. They say I ’ve laid it on to +them; but I declare that if I have taken here and there a thing from +one, I have done so without any ill-feeling. I even think (_takes his +arm and leads him aside_), I even think there might have been some +denunciation against me. For why should the Revizór come to us? Listen, +Iván Kuzmích, could n’t you, for our common good, you know, just open a +little and read every outgoing and incoming letter in your postoffice, +to see whether they do not contain some denunciation or simply some +report? If there is nothing in them, you may seal the letters again, or +for that, you can return the letters unsealed. + +_Postmaster._ I know, I know. Don’t teach me; I have been doing it, not +exactly as a precaution, but chiefly from curiosity,--I ’m awfully fond +of knowing what ’s up in the world. I assure you, it makes most +interesting reading! Now and then there is a letter that I read with +real pleasure,--there are all kinds of incidents described in them, and +they are so edifying,--better than in the Moscow Gazette! + +_Burgomaster._ Well, tell me, have n’t you found out from them something +about an official from St. Petersburg? + +_Postmaster._ No, there ’s nothing in them about anybody from St. +Petersburg, but a great deal about Kostromá and Sarátov people. Really, +what a pity you do not read letters! There are fine passages in them. +For example, there was a lieutenant who in a letter to his friend +described a ball in a most playful----yes, very fine: “My life, my dear +friend,” says he, “flows in the empyrean: there are plenty of young +ladies, music is playing, the flag is flying----” he described it with +great, very great feeling. I purposely kept the letter. Do you want me +to read it to you? + +_Burgomaster._ Well, this is not the right time for it. So do me the +favour, Iván Kuzmích: if, by chance, there should be a complaint or +denunciation, keep it back without any further ado. + +_Postmaster._ With the greatest pleasure. + +_Judge._ Look out, you ’ll get into trouble yet. + +_Postmaster._ Good gracious! + +_Burgomaster._ Not at all, not at all. It would be a different matter, +if you were to make a public affair out of it, but this is, so to say, a +family matter. + +_Judge._ Yes, there ’s mischief brewing! I was really coming to tell +you, Antón Antónovich, that I wanted to present to you a puppy, a sister +to that dog that you know. You have heard that Chéptovich and +Varkhovínski have started a litigation; so I ’m in clover: I hunt hares +now on one estate, now on the other. + +_Burgomaster._ Lord, what do I care for your hares now! That accursed +incognito is running through my head! I am only waiting for the door to +open, and---- + + + SCENE 3. THE SAME, BOBCHÍNSKI AND DOBCHÍNSKI ENTER, OUT OF BREATH + +_Bobchínski._ An extraordinary occurrence! + +_Dobchínski._ An unexpected occurrence! + +_All._ What, what is it? + +_Dobchínski._ An unforeseen affair: we come to the inn---- + +_Bobchínski_ (_interrupting him_). Petr Ivánovich and I come to the +inn---- + +_Dobchínski_ (_interrupting_). Eh, permit me, Petr Ivánovich, let me +tell it. + +_Bobchínski._ Oh no, let me----let me, let me----you are n’t a good +speaker---- + +_Dobchínski._ And you ’ll get confused and you ’ll forget something. + +_Bobchínski._ No, I won’t, upon my word, I won’t. Don’t bother me, let +me tell it, don’t bother me! Please, gentlemen, do tell Petr Ivánovich +not to bother me. + +_Burgomaster._ For the Lord’s sake, do tell, what is it? My heart is in +my mouth. Sit down, gentlemen! Take seats! Petr Ivánovich, here is a +chair for you. (_All sit around the two Petr Ivánovichs._) Well, what is +it, what? + +_Bobchínski._ Allow me, allow me; I ’ll tell it all in order. No sooner +had I the pleasure of leaving you, just as you were disturbed by the +letter you had received, yes, I at once ran----now, please don’t +interrupt me, Petr Ivánovich! I know it all, truly, I do. So, you see, I +ran to Koróbkin’s house. As I did not find him at home I turned in to +Rastákovski’s, and as I did not find him at home I stopped at Iván +Kuzmích’s house to inform him the piece of news you had received, and as +I was going away from there, I fell in with Petr Ivánovich. + +_Dobchínski_ (_interrupting_). Near the booth where they sell cakes. + +_Bobchínski._ Near the booth where they sell cakes. Yes, and as I fell +in with Petr Ivánovich, I said to him: “Have you heard the news that +Antón Antónovich has received in a trustworthy letter?” But Petr +Ivánovich had already heard that from your housekeeper Avdótya, who had +been sent for something or other to Filíp Ivánovich Pochechúev. + +_Dobchínski_ (_interrupting_). For a keg of French brandy. + +_Bobchínski_ (_warding him off with his hand_). For a keg of French +brandy. So Petr Ivánovich and I came to Pochechúev----Now, Petr +Ivánovich, please don’t----don’t interrupt me, please, don’t interrupt +me!----We went to Pochechúev, and on the way Petr Ivánovich said to me: +“Let ’s go,” says he, “to the inn. My stomach,--I have eaten nothing +since morning,--why, there ’s a rumbling in my stomach----” Yes, Petr +Ivánovich’s stomach---- “In the inn,” says he, “they have received some +fresh salmon, so we ’ll have a bite.” No sooner had we entered into the +inn, when a young man---- + +_Dobchínski_ (_interrupting_). Of good appearance and in citizen’s +clothes---- + +_Bobchínski._ Of good appearance and in citizen’s clothes, was walking +up and down the room, such an expression in his +face----physiognomy----carriage, and up here (_moves his hand around his +forehead_) very distinguished. I had a kind of presentiment, and I said +to Petr Ivánovich: “There ’s something up here.” Yes. And Petr Ivánovich +beckoned to the innkeeper and called him up,--’t was innkeeper +Vlas,--his wife had a baby three weeks ago, such a lively creature, he +’ll be an innkeeper like his father. So, calling up Vlas, Petr Ivánovich +asked him in a whisper: “Who,” says he, “is that young fellow?” to which +Vlas answered: “That,” says he----oh, don’t interrupt me, Petr +Ivánovich, I beg you, don’t interrupt me, you won’t be able to tell the +story, upon my word you won’t: you lisp, you have a whistling tooth in +your mouth, I know---- “That young man,” says he, “is an official,” yes, +“he ’s from St. Petersburg, and his name is,” says he, “Iván +Aleksándrovich Khlestakóv, sir, and he is on his way,” says he, “to the +Government of Sarátov, and,” says he, “he is acting very strangely: he +has been here nearly two weeks, he never leaves the inn, takes +everything on credit, and won’t pay a kopek.” When he told me that, a +light dawned upon me at once. “Oho!” said I to Petr Ivánovich---- + +_Dobchínski._ No, Petr Ivánovich, it was I who said “Oho!” + +_Bobchínski._ First you said it, and then I. “Oho!” said we. “What +reason could he have to stay here, when his road is to the Government of +Sarátov?” Yes, sir, he is that very official. + +_Burgomaster._ Who--what official? + +_Bobchínski._ The official about whom you have received that +information,--the Revizór. + +_Burgomaster_ (_terrified_). Don’t say that, the Lord be with you! it is +n’t he. + +_Dobchínski._ He! He does n’t pay his bill, and he does n’t leave. Who +else could it be, if not he? His passport is made out for Sarátov. + +_Bobchínski._ He--he--upon my word, he----He is so observing: he watches +everything. He saw Petr Ivánovich and me eating salmon,--mainly because +of, on account of, Petr Ivánovich’s stomach----yes, he even looked into +our plates. I just trembled with fear. + +_Burgomaster._ Lord, have mercy upon us sinners! Where is he staying +there? + +_Dobchínski._ Number five, under the staircase. + +_Bobchínski._ The same room that the transient officers had a fight in +last year. + +_Burgomaster._ Has he been here long? + +_Dobchínski._ Some two weeks. He arrived on the day of St. Basil the +Egyptian. + +_Burgomaster._ Two weeks! (_Aside._) Friends and saints, help me! Within +these two weeks the sergeant’s wife has been flogged! The prisoners have +received no provision. Drunkenness and dirt in the streets! Disgraceful! +Shameful! (_Tears his hair._) + +_Curator._ Antón Antónovich, had we not better make an official call in +the inn? + +_Judge._ No, no! First send the Mayor, the clergy, the merchants. It +says in the book “John the Mason”---- + +_Burgomaster._ No, no! Let me attend to it! I ’ve had hard cases before +in life, and I not only got out of them hale, but even received thanks. +Maybe God will succour me now too. (_Turning to Bobchínski._) You say, +he is a young man? + +_Bobchínski._ Yes, about twenty-three or -four at most. + +_Burgomaster._ So much the better: it is easier to get at the bottom of +a young fellow. It is a tough job, if you have an old devil to deal +with; but a young fellow is all on the surface. You, gentlemen, make +your proper arrangements, and I ’ll go myself, or maybe with Petr +Ivánovich, privately, just for a walk to see that travellers are +properly treated. Here, Svistunóv! + +_Svistunóv._ At your service, sir! + +_Burgomaster._ Fetch me at once the captain--or, no. I need you. Tell +somebody there to fetch me the captain as quickly as possible, and come +back here. (_The sergeant runs away._) + +_Curator._ Let us go, let us go, Ammós Fédorovich. There might, indeed, +happen some misfortune. + +_Judge._ What are you afraid of? Put clean nightcaps on the patients, +and your deed is done. + +_Curator._ Bosh, nightcaps! The patients are supposed to get oat gruel, +and instead there is such a smell of cabbage in the corridors that you +are compelled to hold your nose. + +_Judge._ I am at ease on that score. Indeed, who would think of looking +into the County Court? And if he should take it into his head to glance +at some papers, he ’ll wish he had not done it. It ’s now fifteen years +I have been occupying the bench, but when I look into a brief, I give it +up in despair. Solomon himself could not make out what is right and what +wrong. + +(_The Judge, Curator of Charitable Institutions, Inspector of Schools, +and Postmaster go out, and in the door bump against the returning +sergeant._) + + + FROM “DEAD SOULS” + + MRS. KORÓBOCHKA + +“It ’s a fine village you have there, motherkin. How many souls are +there?” + +“There are in it nigh upon eighty souls, my friend,” said the +proprietress. “The trouble is, times are bad: now, last year there was +such a failure of crops; God save us from another!” + +“Yet your peasants are rather a fine lot, and their cabins look as if +they were in good trim. Oh, please tell me your name! I am so +distracted, having arrived here in night time----” + +“Koróbochka, college secretary.” + +“Much obliged. And your Christian name and patronymic?” + +“Nastásya Petróvna.” + +“Nastásya Petróvna? It ’s a fine name--Nastásya Petróvna. I have an +aunt, my mother’s sister, whose name is Nastásya Petróvna.” + +“And what is your name?” asked the proprietress: “you are the +tax-collector, if I am not mistaken?” + +“No, motherkin!” answered Chíchikov smiling: “not the tax-collector. I +am travelling on my own account.” + +“Oh, then you are buying things! What a pity that I sold the honey so +cheap to the merchants! I am sure, my friend, you would have bought it +of me.” + +“No, it is n’t honey I am after.” + +“What then? Hemp? Why, I have n’t much of it just now,--something like +half a pud.” + +“No, motherkin, it ’s different goods I want. Tell me, have any of your +peasants died?” + +“Oh, my friend, eighteen of them?” said the old woman with a sigh. “And +it ’s all good workers that have died. There have been born some since, +it is true, but what good is there in them? It ’s all small fry. When +the tax-collector comes around, I ’ll have to pay for the dead ones all +the same as if they were living. Last week my blacksmith was burned; he +was such a fine blacksmith, and he was a locksmith too.” + +“Have you had a fire, motherkin?” + +“God has spared me that misfortune. A fire would have been worse; no, he +burnt himself, my friend. There was something inside of him that caught +fire: he had been drinking hard. A blue flame came out of him, and he +burnt all up, and grew black like coal. Oh, he was such a fine +blacksmith! Now I can’t drive out at all, for there is nobody here to +shoe the horses.” + +“God’s will is in everything, motherkin!” said Chíchikov heaving a sigh: +“we must say nothing against the wisdom of God---- Turn them over to me, +Nastásya Petróvna!” + +“Whom, my friend?” + +“I mean all those that have died.” + +“How do you mean, to turn them over?” + +“Why, just turn them over, or, if you wish, sell them to me. I ’ll pay +you for them.” + +“How do you mean that? I declare, I can’t see through it. Do you intend +to dig them up?” + +Chíchikov perceived that she was far from the mark, and it became +necessary to explain to her the business. He told her in a few words +that the transfer or sale would be only on paper, and that the souls +would be mentioned as if they were still alive. + +“What do you want them for?” said the old woman, as she stared at him. + +“That ’s my affair.” + +“But they are dead!” + +“Well, who said they were alive? That ’s where your loss comes in, +because they are dead. You have been paying for them all this time, and +I will deliver you from trouble and expenses. You understand? I will not +only deliver you, but I ’ll pay you fifteen roubles to boot. Well, is it +clear now?” + +“I confess, I don’t know,” said the proprietress deliberately: “I have +never before sold dead souls.” + +“I guess not! It would, indeed, have been an odd thing if you had. Or do +you, really, think there is some use in them?” + +“No, I don’t think exactly that. What use can there be in them? There ’s +no use in them. The thing that troubles me is, they are dead.” + +“I see she is a thick-skulled old woman,” Chíchikov thought. “Listen, +motherkin! Just consider well: you are ruining yourself when you pay +taxes for them as if they were alive----” + +“Oh, my friend, don’t mention it!” the proprietress interrupted him. “It +is n’t three weeks yet that I had to pay one hundred and fifty, and to +grease the tax-collector besides.” + +“That ’s it, motherkin! Now, just consider that you will not have to +grease the tax-collector again, for it is I who am going to pay for +them, and not you. I take upon myself all obligations. I ’ll even have +the deed made out at my expense, do you understand that?” + +The old woman became pensive. She saw that the business was indeed +advantageous, but so new and unusual that she was growing suspicious, +lest the purchaser should get the better of her, especially since God +knows where he came from, and that, too, at night time. + +“Well, motherkin, is it a bargain?” said Chíchikov. + +“Really, my friend, I have never yet had a chance to sell corpses. As +for living ones, it ’s only three years hence that I sold some to +Protopópov,--two girls at one hundred roubles apiece,--and he ’s been +thankful for them: they have turned out to be excellent workers, and +they can make even napkins.” + +“But we are not concerned about living ones,--God be with them! I am +asking for dead ones.” + +“Really, I am afraid, to begin with, I might sell them at a sacrifice. +Maybe, my friend, you are cheating me. Who knows but what they are worth +more?” + +“Listen, motherkin,--what a funny woman you are! What worth can they +have? Think of it: they are dust. Do you understand?--they are nothing +but dust. Take any useless, worthless thing, say, a common rag, and that +has some value: it may be, at least, bought in the paper factory, but +what are these good for? Say yourself, what are they good for?” + +“I ’ll agree, you are right. They are good for nothing. The only thing +that bothers me is that they are dead.” + +“Confound that club-headed woman!” said Chíchikov to himself, as he was +beginning to lose patience. “Go and straighten things out with her! She +has made me sweat, accursed woman!” He took out a handkerchief from his +pocket and began to wipe off the perspiration that really had come out +on his forehead. In reality, Chíchikov had no special reason to lose his +patience: there is many an honourable man, a man of state, who is a fine +reproduction of Mrs. Koróbochka. Let him take some notion, and you will +not get him away from it; all your proofs in the world, even if they are +as clear as daylight, will rebound from him, like a rubber ball from the +wall. Having wiped off his perspiration, Chíchikov resolved to try her +from another side, hoping to get her at last on the right path. + +“Motherkin, either you do not want to understand my words, or you are +just talking, to be a-talking. I am offering you money, fifteen roubles +in assignats,--do you understand? It is money I am offering you. You +can’t pick it up in the street. Now, confess, what did you sell your +honey at?” + +“Twelve roubles a pud.” + +“You are sinning a little, motherkin. You did not sell it at twelve.” + +“Upon my word, I did.” + +“Well, you see, but it is honey! You have been gathering it probably for +a year, with care, and trouble, and worry; you had to be about, to +starve the bees, to feed them a whole winter in the cellar--while dead +souls are not of this world. Here you have to undergo no trouble: it was +God’s will that they should leave this world and cause your estate a +loss. There you received a compensation for your labour and your care at +the rate of twelve roubles, and here you receive for nothing, and not +twelve, but fifteen, and not in silver, but in blue assignats.” + +Chíchikov did not doubt that after such convincing proof the old woman +would finally capitulate. + +“Really,” answered the proprietress, “I am such an inexperienced widow! +I think I had better wait a little: maybe some other purchasers will +come, and I ’ll get used to the price.” + +“Shame, shame, motherkin! Simply, shame! Now, just think what you are +saying! Who is going to buy them? Well, what use can anybody make of +them?” + +“Maybe they are some good on the estate----” retorted the old woman and +did not finish her speech. She opened her mouth and looked at him almost +with terror, wondering what he would say to that. + +“Dead souls on the estate! What a guess you have made! What do you want +to do with them? Use them for scarecrows to drive the sparrows out of +your garden?” + +“The power of the cross be with us! What awful things you say!” muttered +the woman, making the sign of the cross. + +“Well, where else would you make use of them? Besides, I leave their +bones and graves to you: the transfer is only on paper. Well, what do +you say? Give me, at least, some kind of an answer.” + +The old woman fell again to musing. + +“What are you thinking about, Nastásya Petróvna?” + +“Really, I can’t quite make it out; let me better sell you some hemp.” + +“What do I want with the hemp? I declare, I am asking you for something +else, and you foist hemp upon me! The hemp is all right, I ’ll come +another time, and will take your hemp. How is it now, Nastásya +Petróvna?” + +“Upon my word, it ’s such a strange article, and so odd.” + +Here Chíchikov’s patience burst all bounds; in his anger he banged a +chair against the floor, and sent her to the devil. + +The proprietress was dreadfully put out by the devil. “Oh, don’t mention +him, God be with him!” she cried out, while growing pale: “Only night +before last the accursed one appeared to me in my dream. I had +carelessly been laying cards to tell fortune in the evening after +prayers, so the Lord evidently sent him to me to punish me. Oh, he +looked so horrible: his horns were longer than a bull’s.” + +“I wonder how it is they don’t come to you by the dozen. Out of mere +Christian charity I wanted to help a poor widow that is suffering +want---- Go to perdition with your whole village!----” + +“What curses you are uttering!” said the woman, looking at him in +terror. + +“I can’t find the right words with you! Really, not to use any bad +words, you are just like a watchdog that is lying on the hay: he does +n’t himself eat any hay, and won’t let anybody else eat it. I had +intended to buy all kinds of produce from you, for I am also a +government contractor----” He lied here, just in passing, without any +further thought, but it came in unexpectedly at the right moment. +Government contracts made a strong impression on Nastásya Petróvna; at +least she spoke in an almost imploring voice: + +“But what has made you so dreadfully angry? If I had known before that +you are such an excitable man, I would n’t have contradicted you at +all.” + +“There is really no cause for anger! The whole business is n’t worth an +empty eggshell, and why should I get angry over it?” + +“Well, if you want them, I ’ll let you have them for fifteen in +assignats! Only, my friend, let me tell you about your government +contracts: if you have any occasion to buy up rye, or buckwheat, or +grit, or meat,--please don’t forget me.” + +“No, motherkin, I won’t,” he said while wiping off the sweat that came +down his face in three streaks. He asked her whether she did not have in +town some attorney or friend whom she could give the power to make out +the deed and everything else that was necessary. + +“Certainly! The son of Father Cyril, the protopope, serves in the +court-house,” said Koróbochka. + +Chíchikov asked her to write a letter to him granting him power of +attorney, and, to save more trouble, began to compose the letter +himself. + +“It would be nice,” Koróbochka said to herself in the meanwhile, “if he +bought flour and beef of me for the government. I must get on the good +side of him: there is some dough left from last night, so I ’ll go and +tell Fetínya to make some griddle cakes.” + + + + + Vissarión Grigórevich Byelínski. (1811-1848.) + + + Few persons have exerted such a far-reaching influence upon Russian + literature as the critic Byelínski, and a whole generation of writers + was cast in the mould of his æsthetic views. Byelínski was the son of + a district physician in the Government of Pénza. His home life was + exceedingly unhappy and his childhood was neglected; from the district + school, to which he was sent up to his fourteenth year, he was + transferred to the Gymnasium and later to the Moscow University, but + he was a very poor student and careless about his person. In Moscow he + joined the Schelling circle of the students and with them devoted his + time to the study of literature, especially of Shakspere, Goethe, + Schiller, and Hoffmann. In 1832 he left the university, and the next + two years he passed in utter wretchedness and poverty. Then he took + his first critical essay, _Literary Dreams_, to a magazine, and his + literary career began. Under Schelling’s influence he denied the + previous importance of Russian literature, and proclaimed the nascent + genius of Gógol, who had just made his appearance. Between 1836 and + 1838 Byelínski’s circle of friends vaulted over to Hegel’s philosophy, + and under this new influence Byelínski rejected all lyrics and satire + as not compatible with an unbiased, objective contemplation of the + phenomena of life, and discredited all productions that dealt with the + living questions of the day. In 1839 he was called to St. Petersburg + to take charge of the critical and bibliographical departments of the + Memoirs of the Fatherland. Here began the third and most important + period of his activity: he soon recanted his former æsthetic theories + and evolved the theory of “art for life,” which henceforth became the + criterion for all literary criticisms. Of his many excellent essays of + this period dealing with Russian belles-lettres, the best is _A View + on Russian Literature for the Year 1847_. He died of consumption, + brought about mainly by his many privations. + + + THE NATURAL SCHOOL + +Our literature has been the fruit of conscious thought; it appeared as +an innovation, it began by imitation. It did not stop there, but +continually strove to be independent, national; from being rhetorical it +strove to become simple, _natural_. This tendency has been made +perceptible by a continuous progress, and forms the meaning and soul of +the history of our literature. We will say without reserve that in no +Russian writer has this tendency been crowned by such success as in +Gógol. This end was attained only through the exclusive application of +art to reality, in spite of all ideals. It became necessary to direct +all the attention to the people, the masses, to depict common men, and +not merely the pleasant exceptions from the universal rule, that +invariably tempt the poets to idealise, and that bear upon themselves a +foreign stamp. That was Gógol’s great merit, and it is that precisely +which the men of the old culture regard as his crime against the laws of +art. By his manner he has completely changed the view on art itself. One +may apply to the works of all the Russian poets, by stretching the point +a little, the old and obsolete definition of poetry as “Nature adorned”; +but it is impossible to do so in relation to Gógol’s works. For these +the more appropriate definition is “a reproduction of reality in all its +truth.” Here the whole matter is in _types_, and the _ideal_ is here not +understood as an adornment (consequently--a lie), but as the correlation +of the types created by him, in accordance with the thought which he +wishes to develop in his production. + +Art has in our days got the better of theory. The old theories have lost +all their credit; the very people that had been educated in them follow +not them, but a certain strange mixture of old and new conceptions. +Thus, for example, some of them, in rejecting the old French theory in +the name of Romanticism, were the first to give the aggravating example +of introducing into their novels persons from the lower strata, even +villains, under the appropriate appellation of Pilferer and Cutter; but +they immediately rectified themselves by bringing out moral persons, +together with the immoral ones, under the name of Truth-lover, +Charitable, etc. In the first case was to be seen the influence of new +ideas, in the second, of old conceptions, for according to the recipe of +ancient poetics at least one clever fellow must be added to a number of +fools, and at least one virtuous man to a number of good-for-nothings. +In either case these betweeners left out of sight the main thing, +namely, art; for it did not occur to them that their virtuous and +vicious persons were not men, not characters, but rhetorical +personifications of abstract virtues and vices. That explains better +than anything why for them theory, rule, is more important than fact, +reality: the latter is inaccessible to their comprehension. However, not +even talented writers and geniuses are always able to escape the +influence of theory. Gógol belongs to the number of the few who have +entirely avoided every influence of any and all theory. Though capable +of understanding art and of admiring it in the productions of other +poets, he nevertheless proceeded in his own way, following his deep and +true artistic instinct with which Nature had endowed him lavishly, and +without being tempted to imitate the successes of others. Of course, +that did not in itself give him any originality, but enabled him to +preserve and express in its entirety that originality which was the part +and parcel of his individuality, consequently, like talent, a natural +gift. It is for that reason that he appeared to many as having entered +Russian literature from without, while, in reality, he was its necessary +phenomenon, which was the logical conclusion of all its preceding +evolution. + +Gógol’s influence on Russian literature has been enormous. Not only did +all the young talents throw themselves on the path which he had +indicated, but some writers who had already gained a reputation +abandoned their old way and proceeded on the new. Gógol wrote nothing +after the _Dead Souls_. There is only his school upon the arena of +literature. All blame and accusation that formerly was hurled at him is +now directed against the natural school, and whatever attack is still +made upon him is on account of that school. What is he, then, accused +of? There are but few accusations, and they are nearly always the same. +At first they attacked the school, they claimed, on account of its +eternal attacks upon the officials. In the representation of the life of +this class some saw sincerely, others feignedly, evil-minded +caricatures. These accusations have been silenced for some time. Now +they accuse the writers of the natural school for loving the people of +the lower occupations, for making heroes of their novels out of +peasants, janitors, coachmen, for describing the purlieus and refuges of +naked poverty and frequently of all kind of immorality. To put the new +writers to shame, the accusers point with triumph to the beautiful days +of Russian literature, refer to the names of Karamzín and Dmítriev, who +had chosen for their productions high and noble objects, and adduce as +an example of now forgotten prettiness the sentimental song: “Of all the +flowerets I loved most the rose!” But we shall remind them that the +first noteworthy novel, was written by Karamzín, and its heroine was +“Poor Líza,” a peasant girl, who was seduced by a coxcomb---- But, they +will say, everything is decent and pure there, and the Moscow peasant +girl does not yield to the best-brought-up lady. Now we have, at last, +come to the cause of the dispute: you see, the old poetics is to be +blamed for it. It does not mind your representing peasants, but not +otherwise than masqueraded in theatrical costumes, who display feelings +and ideas that are strange to their existence, position, and education, +and who express themselves in a language no one speaks, and least of all +peasants,--a literary language that is embellished by “wherewith, +aforementioned, than which,” and so forth.---- In short, the ancient +poetics permits you to represent anything you please, but immediately +prescribes so to adorn the subject under discussion as to make it +utterly impossible to discover what it is you had intended to represent. + +The natural school follows the very opposite rule: the nearest possible +resemblance of the persons represented to their prototypes in reality +does not form its all, but is its first condition, a non-compliance with +which would vitiate anything good there may be in the composition. It is +a heavy condition which only a talent can comply with. After that, how +can those writers help loving and honouring that ancient poetics, who +formerly could without talent insinuate themselves successfully in the +field of poetry? How can they help regarding the natural school as their +most terrible enemy, since it has introduced a manner of writing which +is inaccessible to them? That, of course, refers only to people with +whom egotism enters in the discussion of this question; but there will +also be found many who in all sincere conviction do not love the natural +in art, through the influence of the old poetics upon them. These +people, in addition, complain with special bitterness, because art has +now forgotten its former purpose. “Poetry,” they say, “used to instruct +while amusing, compelled the reader to forget the tribulations and +sufferings of life, and represented to him only pleasant and smiling +pictures. The former poets used to represent also pictures of poverty, +but a poverty that was neat, washed, and expressing itself modestly and +with refinement; then, at the end of the novel there always appeared a +sentimental young lady or maiden, a daughter of rich and refined +parents, or at least a philanthropic young man,--and, in the name of +these kind hearts, was enthroned abundance and happiness where there was +poverty and misery, and grateful tears watered the beneficent hand,--and +the reader involuntarily raised his batiste handkerchief to his eyes and +felt that he was growing better and more sentimental---- + +“But now!--See what they are writing about now! Peasants in bast shoes +and gabardines who often smell of brandy; an old woman--a kind of +centaur, by whose dress one cannot easily tell of what gender that +creature may be; purlieus--refuges of misery, despair, and debauch, +which one can reach only by yards knee-deep in mud; some drunkard,--a +scribe or a seminarist turned teacher, expelled from service,--all that +is described from nature, in the nakedness of terrible truth, so that +the reading of it will give you some bad dreams----” + +Thus, or in some such manner, speak the intrepid disciples of the +ancient poetics. In reality, their complaints are that poetry has quit +lying shamelessly, that it has changed from a nursery tale into a not +always pleasant narrative, that it has ceased being a rattle, by the +sound of which children leap about or fall asleep. Strange people, happy +people! They have succeeded in remaining all their life children, and +even in their old age to be minors,--and now they demand that all should +resemble them! Read your old fairy tales, nobody will keep you from +them; but leave to others the occupations that suit those who are of +age. For you--the lie; for us--truth: let us divide without quarrelling. +You do not want our share, and we will not take yours gratis---- + +But there is another cause which interferes with this friendly +division,--egotism which regards itself as virtue. Indeed, let us take a +man who is well-off, or even rich. He has just had a good, savoury +dinner (he has an excellent cook), has seated himself in his comfortable +arm-chair, with a cup of coffee, in front of a glowing fireplace; he +feels good and warm, a feeling of well-being makes him happy; he takes a +book and lazily turns its pages; his brow wrinkles over his eyes, the +smile disappears from his rosy lips, he is agitated, disturbed, +annoyed---- And there is reason for it! The book tells him that not all +people in the world live as well as he; that there are purlieus where a +whole family shakes with cold under rags, though it had, probably, but +lately known of ease; that there are people in the world who by birth +and fate are destined for misery,--that the last kopek goes for “green +wine” not always from indolence, but also from despair. And our happy +man feels ill at ease, and rather ashamed of his comfort. The whole +trouble is in that wretched book: he had picked it up for his pleasure, +and he had read himself into melancholy and ennui. Away with it! “A book +is to give you a pleasant pastime; I do not need it to find out that +there is much sorrow and sadness in life, and if I do read, it is to +forget it all!” he exclaims. + +Yes, dear sybarite, for your peace books ought to lie, and the poor man +forget his woe, the hungry his hunger, the groans of suffering must +reach your ears as musical notes, lest your appetite be spoiled, your +sleep disturbed---- Now let us imagine another lover of pleasant reading +in the same situation. He has to give a reception, the time is drawing +near, and there is no money. His steward, Nikíta Fédorych, has for some +reason been slow in sending the amount. At last the money arrives, the +reception can come off. With a cigar in his mouth, happy and satisfied, +he is lying on the couch and, having nothing to do, his hands lazily +stretch out towards a book. Again the same story! That damnable book +tells him the exploits of his Nikíta Fédorych, that low-born churl, who +had been accustomed from childhood eagerly to pander to the passions and +whims of others, who was married to the ex-sweetheart of his master’s +progenitor---- Away with that wretched book! + +Now imagine again another man in a comfortable condition, who in his +childhood had been running about barefooted, had been a messenger-boy, +and at fifty had somehow risen to rank, and who possessed a small +competency. Everybody reads, so he must too. But what does he find in +the book?--His biography and, at that, correctly told, though no one, +but himself, knows anything of the experiences of his life, and no +author could possibly have discovered his secret---- He is not merely +agitated, he is mad, and with a feeling of dignity he eases his anger by +the following consideration: “That’s the way they write nowadays! That’s +what Free Thought has come to! Did they write that way before? No! It +used to be such a fluent style, and they discussed such tender and +elevated subjects that it was a joy to read, and there was no cause for +annoyance!” + +There is a special class of readers who, from a sentiment of +aristocratism, hate to meet people of the lower strata even in books, +especially those that have no sense of proprieties and refinement; they +despise dirt and misery, as the very opposite of their luxurious +parlours, boudoirs, and cabinets. These refer to the natural school only +with a haughty contempt and ironical smile---- Who are they, these +feudal barons, that they loathe the “low-born mob” that in their eyes is +lower than a good horse? Be not in a hurry to learn about them in books +of heraldry or at European courts: you will not find their +coats-of-arms; they do not go to Court, and if they have seen the +fashionable world, it was only in the street, through brilliantly +lighted windows, as much as curtains and blinds permitted them to do so. +They cannot boast of ancestors: they are generally officials, or +new-made nobles that are rich only in plebeian traditions of a +grandfather who was a steward, an uncle--a contractor, and, at times, a +grandmother--a baker of altar breads, and an aunt--a huckstress. + +A contempt for the lower strata of society is in our days no longer a +vice of the higher classes; no, it is the disease of upstarts, a +monstrous outgrowth of ignorance, and vulgarity of feelings and +conceptions. A wise and cultured man would never manifest this disease, +if he were at all subject to it, because it does not comport with the +spirit of the time, because to proclaim it would be the croaking that +announces the raven. It seems to us that, though doublefacedness is +contemptible, in this case it is better than a raven sincerity, for it +bears witness to cleverness. The peacock that proudly opens his splendid +tail before the other birds has the reputation of a beautiful, not +clever, animal. What is to be said of the raven that haughtily displays +its borrowed plumage? Such haughtiness is always devoid of sense, and is +generally a plebeian vice. Where is there more display and pretence than +in those classes of society that come right after the lowest? It is so, +because there is most ignorance there. See how deeply the lackey +despises the peasant who is, in every respect, better, nobler, humaner +than he! Whence that pride in the lackey?--He has adopted his master’s +vices, and therefore he regards himself as more cultured than the +peasant. External lustre is ever taken by coarse natures for culture. + +“What sense is there in flooding literature with peasants?” exclaim the +aristocrats of a certain category. In their opinion the writer is an +artisan who is to furnish work according to order. It does not enter +their minds that in the selection of the subject for his composition the +author cannot be guided by the will of others, or even his own free +choice, for art has its laws that must be complied with in order that +one may write well. It demands above all that the writer should be true +to his own nature, his talent, his fancy. How are we to explain the fact +that one likes to represent happy subjects, another sad ones, if not by +the nature, character, and talent of the poet? What one loves and is +interested in, that one knows best, and what one knows best, one +represents best. That is the most legitimate justification of the poet +who is blamed for the selection of his subjects; it is not satisfactory +only to those who have no understanding of art and vulgarly confound it +with the artisan’s profession. + +Nature is the eternal model of art, and the greatest and noblest subject +in nature is man. And is a peasant not a man? But what can there be of +interest in a coarse, untutored man? Why, his soul, mind, heart, +passions, inclinations,--in short, the same as in the cultured man. +Granted, the latter is more interesting than the first; but is the +botanist interested only in artfully improved garden plants, and does he +neglect their wild-growing field prototypes? Is not for the anatomist +and physiologist the organism of a wild Australian as interesting as the +organism of an enlightened European? For what reason should art, in this +respect, differ so much from science? Then you say that a cultured man +is higher than an uncultured one. One has to agree with you in that, but +not unconditionally. Of course, the most frivolous worldly man stands +incomparably higher than a peasant, but in what respect? Only in worldly +education, but that in no way interferes with many a peasant’s being +higher than he, for example, as regards his mind, feelings, character. +Education only develops the moral powers of man, it does not give them; +Nature gives them to man. In this distribution of her precious gifts, +she acts blindly, without considering the classes. If from the educated +class of society there issues a greater number of remarkable men, it is +only because there are there more means for development, and not at all +because Nature has been more niggardly with the men of the lower classes +in the distribution of her gifts. + +“What can one learn from a book in which is described some miserable +wretch who has drunk himself to perdition?” say again these second-hand +aristocrats. Why, certainly not worldly manners and refinement, but the +knowledge of man under certain conditions. One man gets drunk through +indolence, through bad bringing up, through weakness of character, +another through unfortunate circumstances in life for which he may not +bear the least blame. In either case, they are instructive and curious +examples for observation. Of course, it is much easier to turn away with +disgust from a fallen man than to stretch out to him a consoling and +helpful hand, just as it is much easier to judge him severely in the +name of morality than with sympathy and love to enter into his +situation, to probe the cause of his fall, and to pity him as a man, +even when he appears much to blame for his fall. + +The Redeemer of the human race came into the world for all men; not wise +and educated men, but simple-minded and simple-hearted fishermen He +called to be “fishers of men”; not rich and happy men, but poor, +suffering, fallen men He sought, in order to console some, and encourage +and raise others. Festering sores on a body that was hardly covered with +unclean rags did not offend His eyes, which shone with love and charity. +He, the son of God, loved men humanely and sympathised with them in +their misery, dirt, shame, debauch, vices, wrongdoings. He bid those +throw a stone at the adulteress who could not in any way accuse their +own consciences, and put the hard-hearted judges to shame, and gave the +fallen woman a word of consolation,--and the robber, who breathed his +last on the cross as a well-deserved punishment, for one moment of +repentance, heard from Him the word of forgiveness and peace. But we, +the sons of men, we want to love only those of our brothers who are like +us, we turn away from the lower classes as from pariahs, fallen ones, +lepers. What virtues and deserts have given us the right to do so? Is it +not rather the very absence of all virtues and deserts? But the divine +word of love and brotherhood has not in vain been proclaimed to the +world. + +That which formerly was only the duty of persons who had been called to +serve at the altar, or the virtue of the chosen few, has now become the +obligation of societies, and no longer serves as a token of mere virtue, +but also of culture of private individuals. See, how in our century +everybody is interested in the lot of the lower classes, how private +philanthropy is everywhere being changed into state institutions, how on +all sides are formed well-organised, richly endowed societies for the +aid of the needy and suffering, for the suppression and prevention of +misery and its inevitable consequence--immorality and debauch. This +universal movement, so noble, so humane, so Christian, meets its +detractors in the persons of the worshippers of a dull and stark +patriarchalism. They say that fashion, whim, vainglory, and not +philanthropy, are active here. Suppose it is so, but when and where have +similar trifling impulses not taken part in the best of human actions? +But how can one assert that only such impulses have been the cause of +these phenomena? How can one think that the chief creators of these +phenomena, who by their example have influenced the masses, are not +inspired by nobler and higher impulses? Naturally, there is no cause for +admiring the virtue of people who throw themselves into charity not from +a sense of neighbourly love, but from fashion, from imitation, from +vainglory. But it is a virtue as regards society which is so full of the +spirit that it can direct the activities of trivial people towards the +good! Is it not an extremely encouraging phenomenon of modern +civilisation, of progress of mind, education, and culture? + +Entirely admitting that art must above all be art, we nevertheless think +that the idea of some kind of a pure, exclusive art that lives in its +own sphere, that has nothing in common with the other sides of life, is +an abstract, visionary idea. There has never and nowhere existed such an +art. No doubt, life is divided and subdivided into a multitude of sides +that have their separate existences; but these sides continually +interact in a living organism, and there is between them no sharply +drawn line. No matter how you may parcel out life, it is always one and +inseparable. They say: for science we need mind and reason, for art, +fancy, and they think that they have thus once and for all settled the +matter, and that it is fit to go in that shape into the archives. Does +not art need mind and reason as well? And can the savant get along +without fancy? No! The truth is that in art fancy plays the most active +and important part, while in science, mind and reason. There are, to be +sure, productions of poetry in which nothing is to be seen except a +strong, brilliant fancy; but that is not a common rule for artistic +productions. + + + + + Sergyéy Timoféevich Aksákov. (1791-1859.) + + + Aksákov represents the rare example in Russian literature of an author + who passed from the pseudo-classic style to the realistic school of + Gógol without taking part in the intervening Romantic movement. He was + born at Ufá, and graduated from what was then the Kazán University at + sixteen years of age. He then served as a government translator, and + devoted himself to literature, mainly to translations from the French. + His sympathies were entirely with Shishkóv, Karamzín’s opponent. In + 1827 he was made a censor, in which capacity he gained an unenviable + reputation as an unscrupulous partisan. In the thirties he came under + the influence of Gógol, and in 1833 he wrote _The Snowstorm_, which + was later followed by an admirable series of sketches on angling and + on hunting, containing charming pictures of animal life. In 1856 + appeared his great work, _The Family Chronicle_, in which he gives + vivid descriptions from the life of a landed proprietor in the + Orenbúrg country, abounding in exquisite landscape pictures. _The + Family Chronicle_ differs from all the other productions of the + realistic school in that there is not a word of fiction in it, but + that it is based entirely on actual facts. + + + FROM “THE FAMILY CHRONICLE” + +Towards the end of June the heat was oppressive. After a sultry night +there blew, at daybreak, a fresh eastern breeze, but it subsided as soon +as the sun grew warmer. Grandfather awoke at sunrise. He found it warm +sleeping in a small upper room, even though the old-fashioned window +frame with its tiny panes was lifted up to its fullest capacity, because +his bed was curtained with a bar of homespun netting. This was a +necessary precaution, for without the bar the pestering mosquitoes would +have eaten him up and would have kept him from falling asleep. The +winged musicians swarmed around in clouds and stuck their long stings +through the thin screen, and they hummed all night their wearisome +serenades. It is funny for me to say so, but I can’t help confessing +that I like the descant buzz and even the biting of the mosquitoes; I +hear in it the oppressive summer, the luxurious, sleepless nights, the +shores of the Buguruslán that are overgrown with green bushes, from +which resound on all sides the songs of the nightingales; I recall the +rapture of my young heart and the sweet, unaccountable pining for which +I would now gladly give the rest of my flickering life. + +Grandfather awoke, with his warm hand wiped the sweat from his straight, +high forehead, put his head out from under the bar, and began to laugh. +Vánka Mazán and Nikánorka Tanaychénok were snoring on the floor on which +they were stretched out in laughable, though artistic, postures. “I +declare, the dog’s children are snoring!” said grandfather and smiled +again. + +Stepán Mikháylovich was an enigmatic man. After such a strong verbal +exordium one would have expected a poke in the side of the sleeper, with +the viburnum cane which always stood by his bed, or a kick with the +foot, or even a greeting with the chair; but grandfather only laughed +out loud as he awoke, and thus, as they say, got into a good humour for +the whole day. + +He rose without any noise, made one or two signs of the cross, stepped +with his bare feet into leather slippers that were worn red, and, +dressed in nothing but a shirt of peasant homespun (grandmother would +not let him have loom-woven linen for shirts), he went out on the porch +where he was refreshed by a whiff of the morning moisture. I just said +that Arína Vasílevna did not give him any loom-woven linen for shirts, +and every reader would be right in remarking that this was not in +keeping with the character of the wedded pair. But really I can’t help +it, and I beg you not to be angry with me, it was as I said: feminine +nature carried the day over the male, as is always the case! Though she +was frequently beaten for giving him coarse underwear, she continued to +offer him the same, until the old man took it as a matter of course. +Once grandfather made use of the last and the most efficacious means: he +chopped up with an axe, on the threshold of his room, all the underwear +that had been made of peasant homespun, in spite of grandmother’s wail, +who kept on imploring that Stepán Mikháylovich might strike her, but +should spare his own property, but even this means was of no avail; the +coarse underwear made its appearance again,--and the old man +surrendered. + +I am much to be blamed for interrupting the story about “my +grandfather’s good day,” in order to contradict the reader’s possible +remark. Without disturbing anyone, he took down a felt blanket which +always lay in the storeroom, spread it out on the upper step of the +porch, and sat down upon it, to receive, as was his custom, the rising +sun. + +Before sunrise a man’s heart experiences unconsciously a happy feeling; +but grandfather had the additional pleasure of looking at his estate +which was then already well provided with all necessary farm buildings. +It is true, the yard was not fenced in, and the cattle from the peasant +yards, which were gathering into a common herd before being driven out +into the pasture, made a call upon him in passing, just as on that +morning and as always happened in the evenings. A few dirty pigs rubbed +and scratched themselves against the very porch on which grandfather was +sitting, and, grunting, feasted on lobster shells and all kinds of +remnants from the dinner which were unceremoniously thrown out near the +same porch. Cows and sheep made their visits too. Naturally there were +left indecent traces of their calls, but grandfather saw nothing +disagreeable in all that, but on the contrary took his delight in +watching the healthy cattle, which were to him a sure sign of the +sufficiency and well-being of his peasants. + +Soon the loud snapping of a long shepherd whip drove the visitors away. +The servants began to rise. The tall groom Spiridón, who was called +Spírka to a good old age, led out one after another two roan colts and +one bay, hitched them to a post, groomed them, and then walked them +around by a long rope, while grandfather admired their stature, as he +also took delight in the breed he expected to raise from them (he was +later completely successful in that). Then awoke also the old stewardess +who slept in the loft of the cellar; she came out of the cellar, went to +the Buguruslán to get washed, sighed, sobbed (that was her unchangeable +custom), prayed to God while turning to the east, and began to wash, +rinse, and clean the pots and dishes. + +The swallows and martins chirped and sang, circling merrily in the sky; +the quails called loudly in the fields; the songs of the skylarks rang +out in the air; the crake cried hoarsely, sitting in the bushes; the +whistling of waterhens, and the tocking and bleating of wild snipes were +borne thither from the nearby swamp, and the blue-throated warblers vied +in mocking the nightingales.--The bright sun rolled out from beyond the +hill. + +Smoke rose from the peasants’ huts, bending with the wind in light grey +columns, like a procession of river boats flaunting their flags; the +peasants started for the field. + +Grandfather wanted to wash himself in cold water, and then to drink tea. +He awoke his disgracefully sleeping servants. They leaped up, like +half-witted people, in fright, but Stepán Mikháylovich’s merry voice +reassured them: “Mazán, fetch me some water! Tanaychénok, wake Aksyútka +and the lady,--and tea!” There was no need of repeating the commands: +awkward Mazán was running as fast as his feet could carry him with a +bright brass wash-basin to get some water at the spring; and agile +Tanaychénok awoke the homely servant girl Aksyútka who only fixed the +kerchief that had slipped from her head and at once went to wake the +good old lady Arína Vasílevna. A few minutes later the whole house was +on its feet, and everybody knew that the old gentleman had gotten up in +a good humour. Fifteen minutes later a table was placed near the porch, +and it was covered with a fine white cloth of home make; upon it boiled +a samovár in the shape of a huge brass tea-pot, and Aksyútka was busy +attending to it; the old lady, Arína Vasílevna, bade Stepán Mikháylovich +good-morning, without sighing and groaning, as would be proper on other +mornings, and loudly and merrily asked his health: “How did you rest +yourself, and what kind of dreams did you have?” + +Grandfather greeted his wife kindly and called her Arísha; he never +kissed her hand, but gave her his hand to kiss as a token of his favour. +Arína Vasílevna bloomed out and grew younger. Her obesity and clumsiness +disappeared as if by magic! She brought a little stool and seated +herself on the porch near grandfather, which she never dared to do if he +did not receive her graciously. + +“Let us have tea together, Arísha!” said Stepán Mikháylovich, “before it +is hot. Though it was sultry to sleep, I slept so well that I had no +dreams? And you?” + +Such a question was an unusual favour, and grandmother speedily replied +that she slept well every time Stepán Mikháylovich passed a good night, +but that Tanyúsha had tossed a great deal. Tanyúsha was the youngest +daughter, and the old man loved her more than his other daughters, as is +often the case. These words disquieted him, and he ordered not to wake +Tanyúsha, but let her awaken herself. Tatyána Stepánovna had been +wakened together with Aleksándra and Elizavéta Stepánovna and they were +all dressed, but they did not dare tell him that. Tanyúsha immediately +undressed herself, went back to bed, ordered to close the shutters in +her room and, though she could not fall asleep, lay for two hours in the +dark; grandfather was satisfied because Tatyána had had a good rest. His +only son, who was nine years old, was never made to get up early. + +The elder daughters appeared at once. Stepán Mikháylovich graciously +gave them his hand to kiss and called one Lizánka and the other Leksána. +Neither of them was a silly girl. Aleksándra united her father’s +vivacity and excitability with her cunning mind, but she did not have +his good qualities. Grandmother was a very simple woman and was +completely controlled by her daughters. If she ever undertook to outwit +Stepán Mikháylovich, she did so solely by their instigation, which the +old man knew all by heart and for which, on account of her +simple-mindedness, she had often to pay dearly. He also knew that his +daughters were ready to deceive him at any convenient moment, and only +from ennui, or in order to preserve his own peace, that is, only when he +was in good humour, did he allow them to think that they were really +deceiving him; but in the first fit of anger he told them all without +mercy, in the most unceremonious words, and sometimes he even beat them. +But the daughters, like Eve’s real grandchildren, did not lose their +courage: the moment the hour of anger passed and their father’s face was +becalmed, they set out once more to try their old tricks, and they were +often successful. + +Having drunk his tea and talked over all kinds of things with his +family, grandfather got ready for the field. He had told Mazán long +before: “The horse!” and an old greyish brown gelding was already at the +porch; it was hitched to a long peasant waggon that was very +comfortable, being woven with a close rope netting and having a long +seat in the middle that was covered with a blanket. Groom Spiridón was +seated in the waggon as a coachman; his livery was quite simple, that +is, it consisted only of his shirt; he was barefooted and was girded +with a red woollen girdle from which hung a key and a brass comb. On a +previous occasion Spiridón had ventured out on such an expedition even +without a hat; but grandfather scolded him for it, so he had prepared +this time something in the shape of a hat out of broad bast bands. +Grandfather made fun of his headgear and, putting on his field coat of +unbleached homespun and a cap, and placing under him a cloak against +rainy weather, seated himself in the waggon. Spiridón placed under +himself his common gabardine, having folded it three times; it was made +of white cloth but was painted blood-red with madder, which grew very +profusely in the fields. This red colour was so customary with our old +men that the neighbours called the Bagróv servants “madderlings”; I +heard that nickname myself some fifteen years after my grandfather’s +death. + +Stepán Mikháylovich was satisfied with everything in the field. He +looked at the deflorated rye which stood like a wall and as high as a +man’s stature. A soft breeze was blowing, and bluish waves passed over +it, appearing now lighter, now darker in the sun. It was a joy for the +master to look at such a field! Grandfather surveyed also the young oats +and all the summer crops; then he went to the untilled field, and had +himself taken up and down his ploughed-up acres. That was his usual way +of judging how well the ploughing had been done; every clod of earth +which had been untouched by the plough gave a jerk to the shaky waggon, +and if grandfather happened to be out of sorts, he stuck a small stick +or a withe into such a place, sent for the village elder, if he was not +with him, and the inquest began right on the spot. This time everything +went off favourably; there may have been some untouched spots, only +Stepán Mikháylovich did not notice them, or did not wish to notice them. + +He cast also a glance at his prairie meadows, and looked with delight at +the dense high grass that was to be mowed in a few days. He visited also +the peasant fields, in order to find out for himself who was going to +have a good harvest and who not. He also looked at their untilled +ground, investigated matters closely, and forgot nothing. Passing by a +fallow field and noticing ripe strawberries, grandfather stopped and +with the aid of Mazán gathered a fine bunch full of fine, large berries +which he took home as a present for his Arísha. In spite of the heat he +was away until noon. The moment they noticed grandfather’s waggon coming +down the hill, the dinner stood on the table, and the whole family +waited for him on the porch. + +“Well, Arísha,” merrily spoke grandfather, “it is a fine harvest God is +giving us! The Lord’s mercy is great! Here are some strawberries for +you!” + +Grandmother beamed with joy. + +“The berries are nearly all ripe,” he continued, “so let them begin +picking to-morrow!” + +Saying these words, he went into the ante-chamber; the odour of warm +cabbage soup was wafted to him from the hall. “Ah, it is ready!” Stepán +Mikháylovich said with a happier mien, “thanks!” and without going to +his room, he went straight into the hall and seated himself at the +table. I must mention that it was grandfather’s custom, when he returned +from the field, whether it was early or late, to find the dinner on the +table, and God preserve them if they did not get ready with the meal +upon his return. Such mishaps had brought about some sad results. But on +that lucky day everything went as if greased, without a hitch. A sturdy +fellow, Nikólka Ruzán, stood behind grandfather with a large +birch-branch, in order to drive away the flies. The hot cabbage soup, +which a Russian will not refuse in the hottest weather, grandfather +sipped from a wooden spoon, because a silver spoon burned his lips. Then +followed cold beet soup with ice, with transparent sterlet, with salted +sturgeon, which was as yellow as wax, and with shelled crawfishes, and +similar light dishes. All that was washed down by home-brewed beer and +kvas, also with ice. It was a very jolly dinner. All spoke aloud, +jested, laughed. There were, however, dinners that passed in terrible +silence and in speechless expectation of some outbreak. All the boys and +girls of the estate knew that the master was dining in a good mood, and +they packed the hall, expecting to catch some dainties. Grandfather +treated them lavishly, because there was always prepared five times as +much food as was necessary. After dinner he at once lay down to sleep. +The flies were driven out from under the bar which was let down over +grandfather and tucked down under the feather mattress. Soon a mighty +snore gave evidence that the master was sleeping a heroic sleep. + +Everybody went to his place to take a nap. Mazán and Tanaychénok, having +had a solid meal from the remnants of the master’s table, stretched +themselves out on the floor of the ante-chamber, near the very door into +grandfather’s sleeping-room. They had already had a nap in the forenoon, +which did not keep them from falling asleep again; but the stifling air +and burning sun which shone through the window woke them up soon. The +sleep and the heat had dried up their throats. They wanted to cool their +burning throats with the master’s iced home-brew, so these bold +lazybones had recourse to the following trick. Through the open door +they reached for grandfather’s morning gown and sleeping-cap which lay +on a chair, near the door. Tanaychénok put on his master’s garment and +seated himself on the porch, and Mazán ran with a pitcher to the cellar, +woke the stewardess, who, like everybody else in the house, slept the +sleep of the dead, and asked in a hurry for some iced beer for the +master who had just risen. When the stewardess expressed her doubt about +the master’s waking, Mazán pointed to Tanaychénok’s figure that was +sitting on the porch in morning gown and night-cap. The pitcher was +filled with beer, ice was put into it, and Mazán ran speedily away with +his booty. They divided the contents in a brotherly way, put the morning +gown and night cap in the old place, and had to wait for a whole hour +before grandfather awoke. + +The master awoke in even a better frame of mind than upon the previous +day, and his first words were: “Cold beer!” The servants were frightened +out of their wits. Tanaychénok ran to the stewardess who saw immediately +that they had themselves drunk the first pitcher. She gave the liquor, +but followed the messenger to the porch where the real master was now +sitting in his morning gown. The deception was made evident from her +first words, and Mazán and Tanaychénok, trembling with fear, fell down +before the master’s feet, and what do you suppose grandfather did? He +laughed out loud, sent for Arísha and his daughters, and laughing loud, +told them the trick of his servants. The poor fellows breathed more +freely, and one of them even smiled. Stepán Mikháylovich noticed that +and came very near getting angry. His brows began to be furrowed, but +his soul was so full of calm restfulness from the whole merry day, that +his forehead cleared off right away, and he only looked angrily and +said: “Well, God will forgive you this time; but if it happens another +time--” It was not necessary to finish the sentence. + +One can’t help marvelling how it is that the servants had dared to +practise such a sharp trick upon their master who was senselessly +excitable and who during his excitement became very cruel. I have +frequently noticed in the course of my life that the severer the master, +the more daring were the acts of their servants. That was not an +exceptional case with my grandfather. The same Vánka Mazán, having once +swept the sleeping room of Stepán Mikháylovich and just getting ready to +make the bed, was so seduced by the soft feather beds and pillows that +he took it into his head to pamper himself; so he lay down upon the +master’s bed and fell asleep. Grandfather found him sleeping in that +bed, and he only laughed out loud. It is true, he gave him a blow with +his viburnum stick, but that was only for fun, to have a good laugh at +Mazán’s fright. + +He awoke about five o’clock in the afternoon, drank some iced homebrew, +and, in spite of the stifling heat, wanted to drink some tea, believing +that a hot drink would make the heat more bearable. He went down to take +a swim in the cool Buguruslán which flowed under the very windows of the +house, and, upon returning, found his whole family waiting for him at +the same tea table, which was now placed in the shade, with the same +boiling teapot-samovár, and with the same Aksyútka. Having had his fill +of his favourite sweat-producing drink, with thick cream and its browned +skin, grandfather proposed to all a ride to the mill. Of course, all +gladly consented, and two of my aunts, Aleksándra and Tatyána +Stepánovna, took some fishing rods with them, for they were very fond of +angling. In a minute two long waggons were hitched up: in one of them +seated themselves grandfather and grandmother, placing between them +their only heir, the precious scion of their ancient noble race. In the +other sat my three aunts and the lad Nikoláshka Ruzán, who was taken +along, in order to dig for worms in the dam and to put them on the +ladies’ hooks. + +At the mill they brought a bench for grandmother, and she seated herself +in the shade of the mill barn, not far from the mill trough, near which +her younger daughters were fishing. The elder daughter, Elizavéta +Stepánovna, went, as much to please her father as from her own love of +farming, with Stepán Mikháylovich to look at the mill and the grinding. +The young boy now looked at the sister’s angling (he was not yet allowed +to fish in deep places), now played near his mother who did not turn her +eyes away from him, fearing that he might somehow roll into the water. + +Both millstones were at work: in one of them they were grinding wheat +for the master’s table; in the other, rye for strangers; the stamping +mill was crushing millet. Grandfather was an expert in every part of the +farm; he knew well the mechanism of the mill, and was explaining all its +details to his clever and attentive daughter. He saw at a glance all the +imperfections in the gearing, or all the mistakes in the position of the +millstones. He ordered to let one down half a notch, and the flour came +out much finer, which pleased the customer very much. In the other +grinding apparatus he discovered by the sound that one pin in the wheel +was beginning to be worn out. He ordered to shut off the water, and +miller Boltunénok jumped down to examine the wheel. He said: + +“You are right, Father Stepán Mikháylovich! One pin is a little worn +off.” + +“Yes, yes, a little,” replied grandfather without any displeasure. “If I +had not come, the wheel would have broken over night.” + +“It is my fault, Stepán Mikháylovich, I did not notice it.” + +“God forgive you! Let us have a new wheel, and get a new pin made for +the old wheel; see to it that the new wheel is not any wider, nor +narrower than the rest, that is the main point.” + +They brought a new wheel, which had been fitted before, and put it in +place; they oiled it, let in the water,--not all at once, but by degrees +(also by order of grandfather),--and the millstone started to hum and +grind, without interruption or rattling, but smoothly and evenly. Then +grandfather went with his daughter to the stamping mill, took out of the +stamp a handful of crushed millet, blew the dust away from the palm of +his hand, and said to the customer, a neighbouring Mordvínian: “Look +here, neighbour Vasyúkha! Don’t you see there is not a single unbroken +grain? If you let the stamping go on, there will be less of flour.” +Vasyúkha tried it himself, and he convinced himself that grandfather was +telling the truth. He thanked him and bowed, that is, he only shook his +head, and ran away to shut off the water. + +From there grandfather went with his pupil to the barnyard. He found +everything in excellent order. There was a large number of geese, ducks, +turkeys, and hens, and an old woman and her grandchild looked after them +all. As a special favour, grandfather let them both kiss his hand, and +he ordered that the fowlkeeper should receive, in addition to the usual +allowance, twenty pounds of wheat flour a month for cakes. Stepán +Mikháylovich returned in good spirits to Arína Vasílevna, and he was +satisfied with everything: his daughter was clever, the mill was +grinding well, and the fowlkeeper Tatyána Gorozhána was looking well +after the fowls. + +The heat had long subsided. The coolness from the water increased the +freshness of the approaching evening; a long cloud of dust rose along +the road and came nearer to the village; one could hear in it the +bleating and lowing of the farm animals; the declining sun disappeared +behind a steep hill. Standing on the dam, Stepán looked with delight at +the broad pond which lay immovable like a mirror between its low banks; +fishes kept on playing in the water and leaping up, but Stepán +Mikháylovich was not fond of fishing. + +“Arísha, it is time to start home; the elder, I suppose, is waiting for +me,” said he. Seeing him in a happy frame of mind, the younger daughters +began to beg him to let them stay a little longer, saying that at +sundown the fish bite better, and that they would walk home in half an +hour. Grandfather consented and drove away in his waggon with +grandmother, while Elizavéta Stepánovna seated herself with her brother +in the other waggon. Stepán Mikháylovich was not mistaken. The elder was +waiting for him at the porch, and he was not alone, but several peasants +and their wives were there also. The elder had seen the master, and he +knew that he was in good humour, and he had told some peasants about it. +Some of them who had some special request to make, such as exceeded any +usual favour, made use of the favourable opportunity, and they were all +satisfied. Grandfather gave some grain to a peasant who had not yet paid +off his old debt, though he could have done so; he permitted another one +to marry off his son, without waiting for winter, and not to the girl +which he had himself selected; he permitted a guilty soldier’s widow, +whom he had ordered to be driven out of the village, to live with her +father, and so forth. + +More than that. They were treated each to a silver cup of strong +home-made brandy, and this cup held more than a beakerful. Grandfather +gave short and clear orders to the elder, and hastened to the supper +which had been waiting for him for some time. The supper table differed +little from dinner, and undoubtedly they ate a more solid meal, because +it was not so hot. After supper Stepán Mikháylovich was in the habit of +sitting up another half an hour in his shirt and cooling himself on the +porch, after his family had been excused to retire. This time he jested +and laughed a little longer than usual with his servants. He ordered +Mazán and Tanaychénok to have a boxing match, and he urged them on in +such a way that they belaboured each other not in jest and tore each +other’s hair. Having had all the fun he wanted, grandfather gave the +command for them to come to their senses and stop. + +A short, marvellous summer night lay over all Nature. The evening +twilight had not yet all disappeared! The azure of the sky grew darker +from hour to hour, and from hour to hour the stars shone more +brilliantly. Louder and louder became the voices and calls of the birds +of the night, as if they were getting nearer to man! The mill sounded +nearer, and the stamping mill stamped in the damp night mist---- +Grandfather rose from his porch, made one or two signs of the cross +towards the starry heavens, and lay down to sleep, in spite of the +closeness of the room, on the hot feather bed, and he ordered the +servants to lower the mosquito bar over him. + + + + + Aleksyéy Stepánovich Khomyakóv. (1804-1860.) + + + Khomyakóv was born in Moscow, where he passed his early childhood and + youth, and there early came in contact with some of the representative + men of letters. In 1821 he was fired with enthusiasm for the Greek + struggle for independence, and ran away from home to join the Greek + patriots. He was, however, overtaken in time by his father, and + entered the Russian army, which he left in 1825. Soon after began to + appear his patriotic and religious songs that attracted the public + attention by their artistic perfection. He again joined the army + during the Turkish campaign of 1828. A few years later he wrote two + tragedies, but they were a complete failure. He then devoted himself + to prose, devoting all his energies to the cause of Slavophilism and + the propagation of Greek-Catholic theology. + + Into English have been translated: _Kiev_, in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian + Lyrics_, London, 1887; _To My Children_, in _Short Poems and Hymns_, + the latter mostly translations, by W. Palmer, Oxford, 1845 (reprinted + in _Russia and the English Church during the Last Fifty Years_, vol. + i., London, 1895, and in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 17, + and in Khomyakóv’s _Complete Works_, vol. iv., Moscow, 1900); _The + Island_ and _To Russia_, in _Russia and the English Church_, vol. i. + (reprinted in Khomyakóv’s _Complete Works_, vol. iv.); _The Eagle_ and + several extracts, by H. Havelock, in The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society, No. 17; _Russian Song_, by N. H. Dole, in Library of the + World’s Best Literature. + + + TO MY CHILDREN + + Time was when I loved at still midnight to come, + My children, to see you asleep in your room; + The cross, holy sign on your foreheads to trace, + And commend you in prayer to the love and the grace + Of our gracious and merciful God. + + To keep gentle guard, and watch over your rest, + To think how your spirits were sinless and blest, + In hope to look forward to long happy years + Of blithe, merry youth, without sorrows or fears, + Oh, how sweet, how delicious it was! + + But now, if I go, all is silence, all gloom; + None sleep in that crib, nothing breathes in that room; + The light that should burn at the image is gone: + Alas! so it is, children now I have none, + And my heart, how it painfully throbs! + + Dear children, at that same midnight do ye, + As I once prayed for you, now in turn pray for me; + Me who loved well the cross on your foreheads to trace; + Now commend me in turn to the mercy and grace + Of our gracious and merciful God. + + --Transl. by Rev. W. Palmer, in _Short Poems and Hymns_, Oxford, + 1845. + + + THE EAGLE + + High hast thou built thine eyrie, + Eagle of the Northern Slavs, + Wide hast thou spread thy wings, + High into heaven hast thou soared. + Fly! But in the lofty deep of ether, + Where thy scarce-breathing breast + Is warmed by the passage of Freedom, + Forget not thy younger kin! + Look to the Southern Steppe, + Look to the far-off West: + Many are there, where the Danube rages, + Where the Alpine clouds gather way, + In the mountain dells, in the dark Carpathians, + In the Balkan defiles wood-clothed, + In the clutches of faithless Teutons, + In the steely chains of the Tartar, + And thy brothers walk in fetters + Till thy voice shall sound in their ears, + Till thy wings thou shalt spread protecting + O’er their heads grown feeble with bondage. + Forget them not, Northern Eagle, + Send them thy resonant call + And in slavery’s night console them + With thy free and cheering light. + Feed them with thoughts elating, + With the hope of happier days, + And warm with loving kindness + These hearts whose blood is as thine. + Their hour shall come: their pinions + Wax strong, and their talons sharp, + They shall cry, full-grown, and shall sunder + At a breath the bonds that now bind. + + --Transl. by H. Havelock, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, + No. 17. + + + KIEV + + Kiev! upon the Dnieper built, + Thy lofty walls above me tower; + Like silver from the furnace pure, + The river gleams where dark hills lour. + + All hail to thee, thou ancient town! + The cradle thou of Russia’s fame! + And hail to thee, O Dnieper swift, + The bath, whence glorious Russia came! + + In the calm air the songs resound, + The evening bells ring out their note; + “Whence come ye, Pilgrim-Brothers, say, + Your homage who to God devote?” + + “I come from where the quiet Don + Glides forth, the beauty of our homes”; + “I come where stern Yenisey + In boundless waters proudly foams.” + + “My home is on the Euxine shore.” + “Mine in those distant realms is found + Where wide-extending ice-fields hold + The sea within their rigid bound.” + + “Savage the view of Altay’s ridge, + Eternal is the snowy glare; + My native town time-honoured Pskov, + My own dear home is there, is there.” + + “I come from cold Ladoga’s Lake”; + “I from the Neva’s soft blue face”; + “I come from Kama’s flowing stream”; + “And I from Moscow’s fond embrace.” + + All hail, Kiev! most wondrous town, + With turbid stream which Dnieper laves! + Grander than seats imperial are + The silent shadows of thy caves. + + We know in night of times gone by, + In darkness of antiquity, + The brightly shining Eastern sun + Glowed ever, Russia, over thee. + + And now, from strange, and distant, lands, + From far-off steppes,--from unknown homes,-- + From deepest rivers of the North,-- + A crowd of praying children comes. + + In loving company well met, + We gather in thy sanctuary; + Where are thy sons, Volhynia? + Galich, where is thy progeny? + + Woe! woe! as though by savage fires, + They all by Poles consumèd are; + By noisy banquetings deceived, + They yield to festive charm and glare. + + Captives to sword and treachery, + They are ensnared by falsehood’s flame; + They move beneath a foreign flag, + They bow unto a stranger’s name. + + Awake, Kiev! again arise, + Upon thy fallen children call, + On them let father’s tenderness, + With voice of supplication, fall. + + Thy sons, erst ravished from thy breast, + Will listen to thy soothing cry; + Will tear asunder cunning chain, + The foreign flag will pass it by; + + Will come again, as in past days, + Will in thy love themselves disport, + Will lay their faces in thy lap, + Will bring their vessels to thy port. + + And all around their native flag + Thy strong commands they will await; + Their life’s full spirit,--spirit’s life,-- + Will be by thee regenerate! + + --From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_. + + + + + Fédor Ivánovich Tyútchev. (1803-1873.) + + + Born almost at the same time with Púshkin, Tyútchev continued the + tradition of Púshkin’s school until the seventies. When only fourteen + years of age, he was chosen a member of the Society of Lovers of + Russian Literature for his masterly translation of poems from Horace. + In 1823 he was attached to the Russian embassy at Munich; then, after + serving in various capacities, he was made president of the Commission + of Foreign Censorship, which office he held to his death. Though + frequently contributing to the periodicals, Tyútchev remained unknown + to the middle of the century, when Nekrásov and Turgénev rediscovered + him. His verses are very melodious and tunable, but rather narrow of + scope. + + In English translation are to be found: _Scarce cooled from midday + heat_ and _The Spring-Storm_, by John Pollen, in _Rhymes from the + Russian_, London, 1891; _I suffer still from anguished longing_, by A. + C. Coolidge, in Harvard Monthly Magazine, 1895, and The Anglo-Russian + Literary Society, No. 15; _Spring Waters_, _Sunrise_, _Evening_, _The + Leaves_, by N. H. Dole, in the Library of the World’s Best Literature. + A few poems, translated by N. H. Dole, are given in G. Schirmer’s + Octavo Choruses for Mixed Voices, New York; the _Sunrise_, by Dole, + was also given in the Ladysmith Leader and Wellington Extension News, + Nov. 6, 1901. + + + Scarce cooled from midday heat + Sparkles the summer night; + O’er sinful earth a threatening cloud + Trembles with lightnings bright. + Heaven’s sleepy eyelids ope, + And through its distant gleam, + The threatening orbs of One above + O’er earth to kindle seem. + + --From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_. + + + THE SPRING-STORM + + I love the storm in early May, + When spring’s first maiden thunder peals, + And, laughing in its frolic play, + Across the blue sky softly steals. + + The little rumblings roll and reel; + The rain-shower glistens; flies the dust; + The rain-drop pearls in clusters cling, + And golden gleams the fields encrust. + + From hillside headlong speeds the rill, + In groves the birds keep twittering, + And chattering wood and murmuring hill + Echo with joy the thundering. + + --From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_. + + ─────── + + I suffer still from anguished longing, + For towards thee still my spirit strives. + In a twilight of memories thronging + E’en now thine image still survives. + + Thine image sweet, forgotten never, + Before me always, near and far, + Unreachable, unchanging ever + As in the sky of night, a star. + + --Transl. by A. C. Coolidge. + + + SUNRISE + + In solemn calm the Orient waits, + A deep, mysterious silence keeping; + No sign to tell if Day be sleeping + Or if he halt before her gates. + + Now, now the mountain tops grow white, + The mists the vales below still cumber, + Still towns and peaceful hamlets slumber-- + But heavenward turn your eager sight! + + Behold it! Now a gleam awakes + And like young Passion’s timid blushes + The red glow brighter, rosier flushes, + Then high above the zenith breaks! + + A moment passes: swift the light + Throughout the Ether’s vast dominions + Sweeps onward on her glittering pinions + And conquers all the hosts of Night. + + --Transl. by N. H. Dole, in Schirmer’s Octavo Choruses, No. 623. + + + + + Aleksándr Ivánovich Gértsen (Herzen). (1812-1870.) + + + Gértsen was the son of a rich landed proprietor by the name of + Yákovlev, and of a German mother (Herzen). He was brought up in the + house of his father, where he early acquired several languages and a + love for the German literature of the period, especially for Schiller + and Goethe. He later devoted himself entirely to the exact sciences + and graduated in 1833 from the University of Moscow with a silver + medal for his thesis, _The Historical Evolution of the System of + Copernicus_. While attending the university, Gértsen was the soul of + one of those circles of the thirties where all kinds of philosophical + and social themes were discussed with great wit and enthusiasm. He + later served in several government capacities, chiefly in St. + Petersburg, where he continued to be a centre around which gathered + all the progressive forces of the younger generations. In 1844 the two + extreme literary camps completely severed their connections: the + Slavophiles rallied around Khomyakóv and the Aksákovs, while the + Westerners gathered around Gértsen and Ogarév. In 1847 Gértsen went + abroad never to return. In the last few years of his residence in St. + Petersburg he had evinced great literary talent: his best known + stories are _The Thieving Magpie_ and _Who is to be Blamed?_ During + his long residence abroad he published the famous _Bell_, in which + periodical he carried on a relentless propaganda for constitutionalism + in Russia. In _From the Other Shore_ (originally published in German) + he expressed his disenchantment with the West, and in _Past and + Reflections_ he has given a series of vivid pictures of his times. His + influence as a political agitator and as a man of letters may be + traced through several generations in Russia. + + Gértsen wrote two of his works in English: _My Exile in Siberia_, 2 + vols., London, 1855, and _The Russian People and Their Socialism_, _A + Letter to M. Jules Michelet_, Brantwood, 1855. + + + SLAVOPHILES AND PANSLAVISM + +Side by side with our circle were our opponents, _nos amis les ennemis_, +or, more correctly, _nos ennemis les amis_,--the Moscow Slavophiles. + +The war between us has long been ended, and we have shaken each others +hands; but in the beginning of the forties we had to meet as +enemies,--so a consistent adherence to our principles demanded. We might +have avoided quarrelling with them for their childish adoration of the +childish period of our history; but accepting their Orthodoxy at full +value, and seeing their ecclesiastic intolerance in both directions,--in +the direction of science and in the direction of the schism,--we had to +assume a hostile attitude towards them. We saw in their doctrine a new +oil with which to anoint the Tsar, a new chain imposed upon thought, a +new subordination of conscience to the servile Byzantine Church. + +It is the Slavophiles’ fault that for a long time we did not understand +the Russian people, or their history: their iconographic ideals and +incense smoke have hindered our discerning the national life and the +foundations of the village commune. + +The Orthodoxy of the Slavophiles, their historical patriotism and +exaggerated, irritating feeling of nationality were provoked by extremes +in the other direction. The importance of their view, its truth and +essential part are not in Orthodoxy and not in national exclusiveness, +but in those elements of Russian life which they have discovered beneath +the fertiliser of the artificial civilisation. + +The idea of nationality is in itself a conservative idea, based on the +exclusiveness of its rights and the clannishness of its associations; +there are in it the Judaic conception of the superiority of race, and +the aristocratic pretensions of purity of blood and entailment. +Nationality, as a banner, as a battle-cry, only then is surrounded by a +revolutionary aureole when the nation fights for independence, when it +throws off a foreign yoke. It is for this reason that national +sentiments, with all their exaggerations, are full of poetry in Italy +and in Poland, and at the same time banal in Germany. + +It would be even more ridiculous than with the Germans to prove our +nationality, for even those do not doubt it who curse us. They hate us +from fear, but do not deny us, as Metternich denied Italy. We ought to +have opposed our nationality to our Germanised government and to its +renegades. This domestic war could not be raised to an epos. The +appearance of the Slavophiles as a school and as a separate doctrine was +quite proper; but if they had found no other flag than the Orthodox +banner, and no other ideal than the _Domostróy_ and the extremely +Russian, but exceedingly harsh, period before Peter, they would have +passed for a curious party of transmogrified odd people who belonged to +another time. The strength and the future of Slavophilism lay in another +direction. It may be that their treasure was really hid in church +vessels of ancient workmanship, but its value was neither in the vessel, +nor in the form. They did not separate them at first. + +To the historical recollections proper were added the memories of all +the related nations. Our Slavophiles assumed the sympathy for the +Western Panslavism to be identical in fact and in direction, forgetting +that there the exclusive nationalism was at the same time the lament of +a people that was oppressed by a foreign yoke. Western Panslavism was, +upon its appearance, regarded by the Austrian government as a +conservative step. It was evolved during the sad epoch of the Vienna +Congress. It was, in general, the time of all kinds of resurrections and +rehabilitations, the time of all kinds of Lazaruses,--fresh and stinking +ones. The Bohemian Panslavism arose by the side of the _Deutschthum_, +which was marching to the resurrection of the _happy_ days of Barbarossa +and the Hohenstaufens. The governments hailed this new tendency, and at +first encouraged the development of international hatred; the masses +again clung to their tribal interrelation, of which the knot was being +drawn tighter, and again were departing from the common demands for the +improvement of their existence; borders became ever more impassable, and +the tie and sympathy between nations were loosened. It goes without +saying that only weak, apathetic nations were allowed to awaken, and +that only so long as their activities were limited to scientific, +archeographic labours and etymological quarrels. In Milan and in Poland, +where nationality would not rest at grammar, it was held down with +spiked hands. + +The Bohemian Panslavism incited the Slavic sympathies in Russia. + +Slavism, or Russism, not as a theory, not as a doctrine, but as an +offended national feeling, as an indistinct recollection and correct +instinct, as a resistance to an exclusively foreign influence, has +existed since the shearing of the first beard by Peter the Great. + +The resistance to the St. Petersburg terrorism of education has never +stopped: tortured and quartered and hung out on the spikes of the +Kremlin, to be shot at by Ménshikov and the other royal _jesters_ in the +shape of savage hunters, poisoned in the ravelin of the St. Petersburg +fortress, in the shape of Tsarévich Alexis, it appeared as the party of +the Dolgorúkis during the reign of Peter II., as the hatred of the +Germans under Birón, as Pugachév under Catherine II., as Catherine II. +herself, an Orthodox German, under the Prussian Holsteinian Peter III., +as Elizabeth, who leaned on the Slavophiles of her day, in order to seat +herself on the throne (the people of Moscow were waiting for all the +Germans to be killed at her coronation). + +All the dissenters are Slavophiles. + +All the white and black clergy are Slavophiles of a different sort. + +The soldiers who demanded the removal of Barclay de Tolly for his +foreign name were the predecessors of Khomyakóv and his friends. + +The war of 1812 developed a strong feeling of national consciousness and +patriotism, but the patriotism of 1812 had no Orthodox, Slavic +character. We see it in Karamzín and Púshkin, and in Emperor Alexander +himself. It was practically an expression of that instinct of force +which all mighty nations feel when they are attacked by a foreign +people; and then it was a solemn feeling of victory, a proud +consciousness of a successful defence. But that theory was weak; in +order to love Russian history, the patriots transformed it according to +European models; they in general translated the Græco-Roman patriotism +from French into Russian, and did not go beyond the verse + + _Pour un cœur bien né, que la patrie est chère!_ + +It is true, Shishkóv even then raved of reëstablishing the ancient +style, but his influence was limited. The real popular diction was used +only by the Frenchified Count Rostopchín in his proclamations and +appeals. + +In measure as the war was being forgotten, this patriotism cooled down +and finally deteriorated, on the one hand, into a low, cynical flattery +of _The Northern Bee_, on the other, into the trivial patriotism of +Zagóskin,[9] who called Shúya,[10] Manchester and Shebúyev, a Raphael, +and who boasted of the bayonets and the expanse from the ice of Torneå +to the Tauric Mountains---- + +In the reign of Nicholas the patriotism was transformed into something +knout-like and official, especially in St. Petersburg, where this +uncouth tendency ended, according to the cosmopolitan character of the +city, in the _invention_ of a national hymn from Sebastian Bach, and, by +Prokópi Lyapunóv, from Schiller. + +To cut loose from Europe, from enlightenment, and from revolution, which +kept him in terror ever since the 14th of December, Nicholas, on his +side, raised the banner of _Orthodoxy_, _autocracy_, and _nationality_, +which was worked out in the manner of a Prussian standard, and supported +by any thing and everything: by the uncouth novels of Zagóskin, the +uncouth iconography, the uncouth architecture, by Uvárov, by the +persecution of the Uniates, and by _The hand of the Almighty has saved +the fatherland_.[11] + +The meeting of the Moscow Slavophiles with the Petersburgian +Slavophilism of Nicholas was a great misfortune for them. Nicholas took +refuge in nationality and Orthodoxy from revolutionary ideas. There was +nothing in common between them but words. Their extremes and +insipidities were all unselfishly insipid, without any relation +whatsoever to the Third Division,--which, of course, did not in the +least hinder their insipidities from being exceedingly insipid. + +Thus, for instance, there passed through Moscow, at the end of the +thirties, the Panslavist Gaj, who later played some indefinite rôle as a +Croatian agitator and at the same time was near to Ban Jelačić. +Muscovites believe in foreigners in general; Gaj was more than a +foreigner, and more than one of their own,--he was both. He, +consequently, had no difficulty in engaging the sympathy of our Slavs +for the fate of their suffering Orthodox brothers in Dalmatia and +Croatia; an enormous subscription was taken up in a few days, and in +addition to that Gaj was given a dinner in the name of all the Servian +and Ruthenian sympathies. At the dinner one of the Slavophiles, who by +his voice and by his profession was more gentle than the rest, a man of +_red_ Orthodoxy, who, no doubt, was heated by the toasts for the +Montenegrin ruler, and for all kinds of great Bosnians, Bohemians, and +Slovaks, improvised a poem in which occurred the following not quite +Christian expression: + + “I shall drink the blood of Magyars and of Germans.” + +All who were still in their senses heard this phrase in disgust. +Fortunately the witty statistician Andrósov saved the bloodthirsty bard: +he jumped up from his chair, grabbed a fruit knife, and said: +“Gentlemen, pardon me, I shall leave you for a moment; it has just +occurred to me that my landlord, the old piano-tuner Diez, is a German; +I ’ll just run down to cut his throat, and I ’ll be back in a trice.” + +A thunderous laughter drowned the indignation. + + [9] Russian novelist of the beginning of the century. + + [10] Manufacturing town in the Government of Vladímir; famous for its + raw sheepskins. + + [11] A line in Ózerov’s tragedy _Dimítri Donskóy_ (see vol. i., p. + 418). + + + + + Nikoláy Platónovich Ogarév. (1813-1877.) + + + Ogarév was born in the Government of Pénza, in the estate of his + father, where he was educated till his fourteenth year. He then + attended the Moscow University, but before he finished his course he + was arrested for singing some revolutionary songs, and was exiled to + his father’s estate. He later passed his life abroad, aiding Herzen in + his revolutionary propaganda. Though mainly known as a propagandist, + he excels even more as a poet. His tender verses remind of Lérmontov, + with whom he has much in common. Among his best poems are his + _Monologues_, _The Village Watchman_, _The Sea of Life_. + + In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_ are given: _Notturno_, _The Old + House_, _The Village Watchman_, _The Child_, _Hidden Love_, and + _Death_; in Free Russia: by Charlotte Sidgwick, in vol. xi., No. 11, + _To Iskander_, in vol. xii., Nos. 6-7, _Summer_; by J. E. Lewis, in + vol. xii., Nos. 8-10, _The Commandment_; by Mary Grace Walker, in vol. + xii., No. 3, _A Prayer_. + + + TO ISKÁNDER[12] + + In days of my boyhood so gentle and tender, + In days of my passionate youth in its splendour, + Through manhood, while slowly to age I surrender,-- + Through all of my life and within my endeavour, + One word in my ears there is ringing for ever-- + “Liberty! Liberty!” + + Tormented by slavery, sad and dejected, + In alien lands all unknown and rejected, + I live but to utter that name long neglected; + Across the wide seas and the countries that sever, + One word to my motherland calling for ever-- + “Liberty! Liberty!” + + It came o’er the waves to the place of my wailing, + ’Mid silence, at midnight,--a rumour assailing + My senses, through darkness and tempest prevailing-- + I hear it! my heart can abandon it never, + That voice from my country that sounds on for ever-- + “Liberty! Liberty!” + + My heart, long accustomed to doubt in its yearning, + Sprang up as it throbbed with new ecstasy burning, + Like a bird from its cage to the wide world returning; + It sings a farewell to its prison for ever, + While solemn and clear rings the note of endeavour-- + “Liberty! Liberty!” + + In the dreams I behold, with the snows that surround him, + The peasant, long-bearded,--the glad news has found him,-- + He shakes from his great limbs the fetters that bound him,-- + And speaks the glad word, the unchanging for ever + Eternal,--the future can silence it never-- + “Liberty! Liberty!” + + But if there should chance,--if there came any reason,-- + To fear for that Liberty, let her in season + Cry out, and I fly to encounter the treason; + And if from that uttermost struggle I never + Return, I can call with the cry “Live for ever, + Liberty! Liberty!” + + It may be I die with the strangers around me, + Yet hope and belief in the future have found me, + O comrade! ere Death in his shackles has bound me; + That name do thou whisper, to last me for ever, + That name--of our love, of our faith and endeavour-- + “Liberty! Liberty!” + + --Transl. by Charlotte Sidgwick in Free Russia, vol. xi., No. 11. + + [12] Pseudonym of Herzen; see p. 236. + + + MONOLOGUES + +What I wish? What?---- Oh, there are so many wishes, and their host is +so eager for a sally, that at times it seems that by their inward +agitation my brain will burn and my breast will burst. What I wish?---- +Everything, in all its fulness! I thirst to know, I yearn for deeds, I +still desire to love with senseless pining, I want to feel the whole +thrill of life! + +I feel in secret all the wishes vain, and life is niggardly, and +inwardly I am feeble,--my striving will be silent and unanswered, and in +endeavours will my strength be wasted. I seem unto myself, oppressed by +suffering, a kind of miserable, puny fool, a creature lost in endless +space, wearing away in empty fermentation. + +It is not given to us to embrace at once the spirit of eternity, and the +cup of life we quaff in swallows; what we have drunk we most +regret,--the empty bottom shows more and more. With every day the soul +feels heavier the aging, and it is more painful to remember, and more +terrible to wish, and to live appears bold recklessness,--but the pulse +cannot stop beating. And I live on in hopeless striving, and take upon +myself the cross of life, and all the fervour of my soul I bear in eager +motion, grasping and losing moments after moments---- + +And I wish all! What?---- Oh, there are so many wishes, and their host +is so eager for a sally, that at times it seems that by their inward +agitation my brain will burn and my breast will burst. + + + THE VILLAGE WATCHMAN + + The night is dark, and clouds abound, + Appears the white snow everywhere; + The crackling frost pervades the ground, + And frigid is the atmosphere. + + On either side the long, broad street + The peasants’ cottages are seen; + The solitary watchman’s feet + Are heard, as he moves on between. + + Cold is he now; the hollow gale + Fills with violent blast the air; + The frost has touched his visage pale, + And whitened all his beard and hair. + + Joy has fled from his gloomy brow, + He finds it hard to be alone; + Through the dark night, and blinding snow, + His song resounds with mournful tone. + + By moonless nights he paces late, + Watching until the morn comes round; + His hammer upon the iron plate + Gives out a dreary, dismal sound. + + And swaying ever to and fro, + The board prolongs its dreadful moan; + The heart dies down with feelings low, + And sorrow weighs it, lorn and lone. + + --From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_. + + + + + Count Aleksyéy Konstantínovich Tolstóy. (1817-1875.) + + + Count Tolstóy’s youth was passed in the estate of his uncle in the + Government of Chernígov. He was early attached to the Russian legation + at Frankfurt, and travelled extensively in Germany, France, and + Switzerland. Upon his return to Russia, he settled in St. Petersburg + and devoted himself to literature. He at first wrote a series of + lyrics and some ballads which are perfect in technique but lack + animation. After the Crimean War he was attached to the Court, and his + renewed literary activity bore better fruits: the result of his + careful historical investigations was the novel _Prince Serébryany_ + and the tragedy _The Death of Iván the Terrible_. There is no + historical novel in Russian that surpasses _Prince Serébryany_ in its + artistic setting and scrupulous adherence to facts. Tolstóy also wrote + two other tragedies that form a trilogy with _The Death of Iván the + Terrible_, but they are weaker in execution. Towards the end of his + life he wrote a number of ballads in the style of the ancient Bylinas, + of which _Alésha Popóvich_ is the best. + + _Prince Serébryany_ has been translated three times: _Prince + Serebrenni_, translated by Princess Galitzine, 2 vols., London, 1874; + _Prince Serbryani_, an Historical Novel of the Times of Iván the + Terrible and of the Conquest of Siberia, by Jeremiah Curtin, New York + and London, [1892]; _The Terrible Czar_, translated by Capt. H. C. + Filmore, London, 1892 (and 1893, 1895). The following poems are to be + found in English translation: _Believe it not_, _The Scolding_, in + John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_; _Speys the Dwarf_, _The + Sinner_, in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_; in The Anglo-Russian + Literary Society, No. 21, by F. P. Marchant, _Prince Mikhailo Repnin_ + and _Dearest Country_, No. 23, by N. Shishkoff, _You know I like to + seek_, _Into my soul so full of vain illusions_, _Where planets roll_, + and _Autumn_, No. 25, by H. Havelock, _The Kurgan_; in Free Russia, by + Elizabeth Gibson, in vol. xi., No. 3, _A Prayer_ and _The Convicts_, + in Nos. 6 and 7, _The Sorrows of Ages Departed_; in the Library of the + World’s Best Literature, reprint of J. Pollen’s _Believe it not_, and + _Renewal_, by Prince Wolkonsky. + + + FROM “PRINCE SERÉBRYANY” + +Tsar Iván Vasílevich was praying. The perspiration was already rolling +down his face; the bloody marks, imprinted upon his high forehead by +former prostrations, were now more clearly defined by the new devotion. +Suddenly, a rustling sound in the room caused him to turn around. He saw +his nurse Onúfrevna. + +His nurse was an old woman. She had been taken to the Upper Apartments +by Grand Prince Vasíli Ivánovich of blessed memory, she had served under +Eléna Glínski. Ioánn was borne in her arms, and in her arms did the +dying father bless him. They said of Onúfrevna that much was known to +her which nobody even suspected. During the minority of the Tsar, the +Glínskis had been afraid of her; the Shúyskis and Byélskis tried in +every way to gain her favour. + +Onúfrevna discovered many hidden things through divination, and she was +never mistaken. She predicted of Prince Telepnév during his very +greatness,--Ioánn was then only four years old,--that he would die of +starvation. And so it happened. Many years had passed since then, but +that prediction was still fresh in the memory of old men. + +It was now almost the tenth decade that Onúfrevna was ending. She was +bent nearly double; the skin of her face was so wrinkled that it +resembled tree bark, and as moss grows out on old bark, so grey tufts of +hair burst out of her chin. She had long ago lost her teeth; her eyes, +it seemed, could not see; her head shook convulsively. + +Onúfrevna bent with her bony hand on a staff. She looked at Ioánn for a +long time, drawing in her seared lips, as if she were chewing or +muttering something. + +“Well?” at last said the nurse with a dull, trembling voice, “are you +praying, father? Pray, pray, Iván Vasílevich! It will take a great deal +of praying to get forgiveness. If you had only your old sins upon your +soul! God is merciful, and He might have forgiven you! But you add every +day a new sin, and many a day even two or three of them.” + +“Hush, Onúfrevna,” said the Tsar, rising, “you do not know what you are +saying!” + +“I do not know what I am saying! Have I grown insane,--what?” + +And the lifeless eyes of the old woman suddenly sparkled. + +“What have you been doing at the table to-day?----Why did you poison the +boyár? You thought I did not know it! Well? Why do you frown? Wait, when +your hour of death will strike, just wait! Your sins will stick to you, +like a thousand thousand puds; they will pull you down to the bottom of +hell. And the devils will run up and will catch you on their hooks!” + +The old woman again began to chew. + +The fervent prayer had prepared the Tsar for pious thoughts. His +irritable imagination had more than once presented to him a picture of +the future chastisement, but his power of will vanquished the terror of +the torments beyond the grave. Ioánn assured himself that this fear and +his bites of conscience were provoked in him by the fiend of the human +race, in order to distract the anointed of God from his high purposes. +The Tsar opposed prayer to the cunning of the devil; but he often +succumbed to the cruel onrush of his imagination. Then despair took +possession of him as with iron claws. The unrighteousness of his acts +appeared in all its nakedness, and the abyss of hell yawned terribly +before him. But that lasted only a short time, Ioánn immediately +regretted his pusillanimity. In anger at himself and at the spirit of +darkness, he, to spite hell and to oppose his conscience, again started +upon his work of blood and villainy, and never did his cruelty reach +such dimensions as after an involuntary exhaustion. + +Now the thought of hell, illuminated by the approaching storm and the +prophetic voice of Onúfrevna, stirred him through and through with a +feverish chill. He seated himself upon the bed. His teeth chattered +against each other. + +“Well, father?” said Onúfrevna, softening her voice. “What is the matter +with you? Are you ill? That ’s it, you are ill! I have given you a good +fright! But you need n’t be frightened, father. Only repent, and stop +sinning. I, too, am praying for you, day and night, and now I shall pray +more than ever. Why should n’t I? I had rather forfeit heaven, if I +could gain forgiveness for you.” + +Ioánn looked at his nurse,--she seemed to be smiling, but her stern face +was not lit up by a smile that was reassuring. + +“Thank you, Onúfrevna, thank you. I am feeling easier; go, the Lord be +with you!” + +“Yes, yes, easier! Your terror leaves you the moment you are consoled! +And you at once drive me away! The Lord be with me, you say! But you, +father, had better not count too much upon God’s long-suffering. Even +God’s patience will give way in your case. Beware, He will renounce you, +and Satan will rejoice and--plump! will enter into you. There, you have +begun to shake again! It will not hurt you to drink a glass of mulled +honey. Drink a glass, father! Your father, the kingdom of heaven be his, +used to drink mulled honey at night! And your mother, God grant her soul +rest, was fond of mulled honey. And it was with mulled honey that the +accursed Shúyskis poisoned her.” + +The old woman became absent-minded. Her eyes were dimmed; she again +began to chew, all the time shaking her head. + +Suddenly something knocked at the window. Iván Vasílevich shuddered. + +The old woman made the sign of the cross with her trembling hand. + +“Just see,” she said, “how it is raining! And it is beginning to +lighten! And there is also thunder, father; God have mercy upon us!” + +The storm increased in fury, and soon the sky was disturbed by +uninterrupted peals of thunder and a continuous sheet of lightning. + +Ioánn shuddered at every thunderclap. + +“What a chill you have, father! Wait a moment, I ’ll have them make you +some mulled honey.” + +“It is not necessary, Onúfrevna, I am well.” + +“Well! Why, your face does not show it! You had better lie down on your +bed and cover yourself with a quilt. What a bed you have here! Nothing +but boards. What a queer notion! Is that proper for a Tsar? That is all +right for a monk, but you are not a monk!” + +Ioánn did not answer. He was intent on listening to something. + +“Onúfrevna,” he suddenly said in fright, “who is walking there in the +corridor? I hear somebody’s steps!” + +“Christ be with you, father! Who should be walking now? It is your +imagination.” + +“No, there is someone walking there! Somebody is coming here! Go and +look, Onúfrevna!” + +The old woman opened the door. A cold wind burst into the room. Beyond +the door appeared Malyúta. + +“Who is that?” asked the Tsar, leaping up. + +“Your red dog, father,” answered the nurse, casting an angry glance at +Malyúta, “Gríshka Skurátov. How the accursed one has frightened me!” + +“Lukyánych!” said the Tsar, made happy by the arrival of his favourite, +“you are welcome; where do you come from?” + +“From the prison, sir. I was at the inquest, and I have brought the +keys.” + +Malyúta bowed low to the Tsar and looked askance at the nurse. + +“The keys!” grumbled the old woman. “They will flog you in the other +world with red hot keys, you Satan! Upon my word, you are Satan! Your +very face is that of a devil! Though somebody else may escape the +eternal fire, you won’t. You, Gríshka, will be licking hot pans for all +your calumnies! You, accursed one, will be boiling in pitch, remember my +word!” + +Lightning illuminated the threatening woman, and she was terrible with +her uplifted staff and her sparkling eyes. + +Malyúta himself felt a little uncomfortable; but Ioánn was emboldened by +the presence of his favourite. + +“Pay no attention to her, Lukyánych,” he said, “know what you are about, +and don’t listen to women’s babble. But you, old fool, go away and leave +us!” + +Onúfrevna’s eyes sparkled once more. + +“Old fool?” she repeated. “You will think of me in the next world! All +your companions, Ványa, will receive their retribution, and they will +receive it even in this world, every one of them, Gryaznóy, Basmánov, +and Vyázemski. Each of them will receive his due, but this one,” she +continued, pointing with her staff at Malyúta, “this one will not +receive his due: there is no adequate punishment for him in this world; +his punishment is in the lowermost pit of hell; there a place is ready +for him, and the devils are waiting for him and rejoicing! And there is +a place there for you, too, Ványa,--a big, warm place!” + +The old woman went out, shuffling her feet and making a noise with her +staff. + +Ioánn was pale. Malyúta did not speak a word. The silence lasted quite a +while. + +“Well, Lukyánych?” said the Tsar at last, “do the Kolýchevs confess?” + +“Not yet, sir. But they will, or they won’t get off so easily from me!” + +Ioánn asked for the details of the inquest. The conversation about the +Kolýchevs gave another direction to his thoughts. It appeared to him +that he might be able to fall asleep. He sent Malyúta away, lay down +upon his bed, and lost consciousness. + +He was awakened as if by a sudden push. The room was weakly lighted by +the lamps before the images. A moonbeam passed through the low window +and glittered on the painted flourishes of the couch. A cricket chirped +behind the couch. A mouse nibbled somewhere at the wood. + +Iván Vasílevich was again terrified amidst this silence. + +Suddenly it seemed to him as though the floor was being raised and a +poisoned boyár looked out from underneath. + +Such visions were common occurrences with Ioánn. He ascribed them to the +persecutions of the devil. To get rid of the apparition, he made the +sign of the cross. + +But the apparition did not disappear, as it did formerly. + +The dead boyár kept on looking at him awry. The eyes of the old man +bulged out, and his face was as blue as then, at dinner, when he drank +the cup sent him by Ioánn. + +“That ’s again the devil’s incitement!” thought the Tsar. “But I will +not submit to the power of Satan, and I will crush the cunning of the +devil. Let God arise, and may His foes be dispersed!” + +The dead man slowly rose from the floor and came nearer to Ioánn. + +The Tsar wanted to cry out, but he could not. There was a terrible din +in his ears. + +The dead man bowed before the Tsar. + +“Hail, Iván!” spoke a hollow, unearthly voice. “I greet you, who have +destroyed an innocent man.” + +These words re-echoed in the very depth of Ioánn’s soul. He did not know +whether he heard them from the apparition, or whether his own thought +found expression in sounds tangible to the ear. + +Then another board was raised; underneath appeared the face of Daníla +Adáshev who had been executed by Ioánn four years before. + +Adáshev, too, rose from the floor, bowed to the Tsar, and said: + +“Hail, Iván! I greet you who have executed an innocent man!” + +After Adáshev there appeared the boyár’s wife Maria who had been +executed together with her children. She rose from the floor, with her +five sons. They all bowed to the Tsar, and all said: + +“Hail, Iván! I greet you!” + +Then appeared Prince Kurlyátev, Prince Obolénski, Nikíta Sheremétev, and +other persons who had been killed or executed by Ioánn. + +The room was filled with dead people. They all bowed low to the Tsar, +and all said: + +“Hail, hail, Iván! I greet you!” + +And there rose monks, hermits, nuns, all in black garments, all pale and +blood-covered. + +And there appeared warriors who had been at Kazán with the Tsar. Upon +them gaped terrible wounds, that were not gained in battle, but were +inflicted by the executioner. + +And there appeared maidens in torn garments, and young women with +suckling babes. The children stretched their bloody hands to Ioánn and +lisped: + +“Hail, hail, Iván, who have made us innocent ones to perish!” + +The room was ever more filled with apparitions. The Tsar could no longer +distinguish his imagination from reality. The words of the apparitions +were repeated in hundred-fold echoes, while the prayers for the dead and +the singing of the vigils resounded above Ioánn’s ears. His hair stood +on end. + +“In the name of the living God,” he spoke, “if you are evil spirits sent +by the power of the devil,--perish! If you are, in truth, the souls of +those I have executed,--wait for the terrible judgment of the Lord! God +will judge us all!” + +The dead people moaned and circled around Ioánn, like autumn leaves +driven by the whirlwind. The singing of the vigils sounded more +pitifully, the rain again beat against the window, and amidst the howl +of the wind, the Tsar thought he heard the sound of trumpets and a voice +calling: + +“Iván, Iván, to the judgment, to the judgment!” + +The Tsar cried out aloud. The sleeping guards ran from the adjoining +apartments into the bedroom. + +“Rise,” cried the Tsar, “all who are asleep now! The last day has come! +The last hour has come! Let us to the church, all after me!” + +The courtiers bestirred themselves. The large bell was rung. The +opríchniks who had just fallen asleep heard the familiar sound, and they +jumped up from their couches and hastened to dress themselves. + +Many were feasting at the house of Vyázemski. They were sitting at the +wine cups and singing drinking songs. When they heard the sound of the +bell, they jumped up from their seats, donned black cloaks over their +rich garments, and covered their heads with high hoods. The whole palace +quarter came into motion. The church of the Mother of God was +brilliantly illuminated. The excited inhabitants rushed to their gates +and saw a multitude of lights that wandered in the palace from room to +room. Then the lights formed a long chain, and the procession meandered +along the outward corridors that connected the palace with the temple of +God. + +All the opríchniks, who were dressed in the identical black cloaks and +hoods, carried pitch torches. Their light was wonderfully reflected upon +the carved pillars and wall decorations. The wind scattered the cloaks, +and the moonlight and the light of the torches was reflected on the +cloth, the pearls, and the costly stones. The Tsar marched in front, +dressed as a monk, and he beat his breast and called out, sobbing aloud: + +“Lord, have mercy on me, sinful man! Have mercy on me, stinking dog! +Have mercy on my evil head! Pacify, O Lord, the souls of those who have +been innocently killed by me!” + +Before the doors of the temple Ioánn fell down exhausted. The torches +illuminated an old woman that was sitting on the steps. She stretched +out her trembling hand to the Tsar. + +“Rise, father!” said Onúfrevna. “I will help you. I have been waiting +for you for a long while. Come, Ványa, let us pray together!” + +Two opríchniks held up the Tsar under his arms. He entered the church. + +New processions, also in black cloaks, also in high hoods, were +hastening over the streets with lighted torches. The doors of the temple +swallowed ever new opríchniks, and the gigantic forms of the saints +looked at them with disfavour from the walls and the vault of the +church. + +In the night, which had till then been speechless, there was suddenly +heard the singing of several hundred voices, and the sound of the bell +and the chant of the psalms were borne afar. + +The prisoners awoke in their dungeons and, rattling their chains, began +to listen. + +“The Tsar is reading the matins!” they said. “O Lord, soften his heart, +put mercy into his soul!” + +Small children that were sleeping by the side of their mothers awoke in +terror and began to cry. Many a mother could not quiet her babe for a +long time. + +“Hush!” she finally said. “Hush, or Malyúta will hear you!” + +At the mention of Malyúta the child stopped crying and in its fright +pressed close to its mother, and during the stillness of the night there +were again heard the psalms of the opríchniks, and the continuous +ringing of the bell. + + + THE DEATH OF IVÁN THE TERRIBLE + + + ACT I. SCENE 2. + + (_The Tsar’s bedchamber. Iván, pale and exhausted, in a black cassock, + is sitting in an arm-chair, beads in his hand. Near him, on a table, + lies the Cap of Monomákh; on the other side, on a stool, are the + royal vestments. Grigóri Nagóy is handing him a goblet._) + + _Nagóy._ O Tsar! one drop of wine thou ’lt drink, + One drop refuse not. Thou these many days + Dost wear thyself out. All this time thy lips + Have nothing touched. + _Iván._ The body needs no food + When the soul is fed on anguish. Henceforth + Remorse shall be my food. + _Nagóy._ O mighty Tsar! + Is ’t true thou wouldst forsake us? How will it + With the Tsarítsa be? with the Tsarévich + Thy Dimítri? + _Iván._ God will not forsake them. + _Nagóy._ But who can hold the reins of government + Except thyself? + _Iván._ My mind’s edge is blunted; + My heart is faint; my hands are powerless + To hold the reins; already for my sins, + To th’ pagan God hath given victory, + Commanded me my throne that I give up + Unto another; my iniquities + Are more than sands o’ th’ sea: a cannibal-- + Tormentor--lecher--church-profaner I: + The boundlessness of God’s long-suffering + Have I exhausted by the last misdeed. + _Nagóy._ O Tsar! Thou dost exaggerate thy sin; + Thy mind went not with it. Thou meantest not + To slay the Tsarévich: thy staff by accident + Did give the blow. + _Iván._ ’T is false! I knowingly, + On purpose, of free will did slay him. Or + Was I then mad, knew not where fell my blow? + No--I slew him purposely! On his back + He fell, bathed in his blood, aye, kissing + These my hands; and dying he forgave me + My monstrous sin, but I forgive myself + Such crimes dare not. + (_Speaks low._) + This very night to me + Appeared he, beckoned with bloody hand, + And, pointing to a cowl, he waved me on + With him along, unto the holy dwelling + By the White Lake, ev’n there where lie the relics + Of Cyril the Wonder-worker. + There loved I formerly alone to be + At times from out the tempests of the world; + There loved I, far from every care, to think + Of future rest, and the unthankfulness + Of man, and the malicious wiles of foes forget; + Mournfully sweet it was to me within + Some cell to rest me from the day’s exertions, + In evening hour to watch the clouds float by, + Hear but the winds sough, and the cries of gulls, + And of the lake the plash monotonous, + All silent there. There passion’s all forgotten. + There will I take the cowl, and it may be + By prayer, by life-long fasting and contrition, + That I shall merit pardon of my curse. + (_A silence._) + Go thou, and learn the reason that so long + Their conference lasts. Soon shall I know their sentence. + When come they with their Tsar? I ’ll lay on him + At once the regal mantle and the crown! + (_Exit Nagóy._) + The end of all! And hither am I brought + Along the lengthened path of majesty. + What have I met with on ’t? Sufferings alone. + E’en from my youth but knowing of unrest, + Now on the steed, amid the whistling shot, + The heathen subjecting, now in the Council + Struggling against the boyárs in revolt, + I see behind me but a long-drawn line + Of sleepless nights and troubled days. + I have not gracious to my people been-- + No! I had never mastery o’er myself. + Father Sylvester, my good old tutor, + Would say to me, “Iván, take care! In thee + Satan would seat him. Open not thy soul + To him, Iván.” But I was deaf unto + The holy, aged man, and oped my soul + Unto the devil. No, no Tsar am I. + A wolf! a stinking cur! a tyrant! + My son I ’ve slain! Cain’s crime I have outpast! + A leper in soul and mind! The sores + That eat away my heart are countless! + O thou, God Christ, heal me, and forgive me + From my unheard-of foulness, and among + The choir of the blessèd count my soul. + + --From _The Death of Iván the Terrible_, transl. by I. H. + Harrison. + + + THE KURGÁN + + Where the broad level steppe lies bare + There stands a lonely mound, + Beneath a famous warrior erst + His latest honour found. + + Three days the funeral feast endured, + Three days his meinie strove; + His wives the priests did offer there, + The war horse he did love. + + But when at length he buried lay, + The noisy rites were o’er, + Singers foretold his fame to be, + Golden the lute he bore. + + “O hero, yet thy deeds shall be + A mighty nation’s boast, + Nor shall thy loudly-sounded name + Through ages all be lost. + + “Nay, should thy lofty tomb be laid + Low as this barren plain, + Yet far thy fame shall ever spread, + Honoured thy dust remain.” + + And see! the years have passed amain, + And centuries have ranged, + Nations to nations given place, + Countries their fall have changed. + + But still that mound its head lifts high, + Where the great chief doth rest, + Nor level with the ground it lies; + Still proudly soars its crest. + + But through the years his glorious name + Was lost, nor lived till now. + Who was he, and what coronets + Graced his victorious brow? + + What blood was it he shed in streams, + What towns in ashes laid? + What death was it he died, and when + Was his sepulture paid? + + This lonely mound doth naught reply, + The warrior is forgot, + And games no more nor songs record + His once lamented lot. + + Only the wild giraffe darts by, + Bounding across the plain, + Or locusts in a fluttering swarm + Settle, then on again. + + Anon the cranes from high in air, + Their goal is now in sight, + Descend, shrill wayfarers, to rest + And preen for their last flight. + + And there the timid jerboa leaps + When slowly dies the day, + Or rider high on mettled steed + Takes there his headlong way. + + And, as across the sky they sail, + The clouds let drop their tears, + And lightly thence the passing breeze + The dust unheeded bears. + + --Transl. by H. Havelock, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, + No. 25. + + + + + Iván Aleksándrovich Goncharóv. (1812-1891.) + + + Goncharóv was born in Simbírsk where his father was a wealthy + merchant. His first ten years he passed in his home amidst the sloth + and indolence of the old Russian patriarchalism. In 1822 he was placed + in an educational institution at Moscow, and twelve years later he + graduated from the university. He began early to translate from the + French and from other languages, in which he was versed, but his first + original story appeared only in 1847. This novel, _A Usual Story_, at + once attracted attention by its realistic pictures of details, and by + the fine raillery at the Romantic extravagancies of its hero. In 1852 + Goncharóv was invited by the Ministry of Marine to accompany an + expedition which was to circumnavigate the world on a mission to + Japan. The result of this voyage was his memoirs, _Frigate Palláda_, + which for brilliancy of description surpass any book in the Russian + language on travels. During his voyage he, at the same time, worked on + his great novel, _Oblómov_, for which he had laid the plan long + before. It was published in 1858 and created a sensation unlike any + other previous production in Russia. The country was on the eve of the + emancipation, and everybody was filled with the optimism that the + native indolence was soon to come to an end, when Goncharóv with + marvellous plasticism generalised that very indolence in his hero, and + made him succumb to it: everybody who read the book recognised + himself, and trembled lest he should also become a victim of Russian + fatalism. Goncharóv’s later novel, _The Declivity_, was less + successful. + + In English there are some extracts translated from _Oblómov_ in the + Library of the World’s Best Literature and in Garnett’s Universal + Anthology. + + + FROM “OBLÓMOV” + +“Go ahead with the description of the ideal of your life---- Well, good +friends around you: what next? How would you pass your days?” + +“Well, I should rise in the morning,” began Oblómov, placing his hands +back of his head, and an expression of rest came over his face: he was +in thought already in the country. “The weather is fine, the sky +deep-blue, and there is not a cloud,” he said. “One side of my house is +turned with its balcony to the east, facing the garden and fields, the +other towards the village. While waiting for my wife to get up, I should +put on my smoking-jacket and should saunter through the garden, to +breathe the morning evaporations; there I should find the gardener, and +we should together water the flowers, and lop the bushes and trees. I +cull a bouquet for my wife. Then I take a bath in the bath-tub or in the +river; I return, the balcony is open; my wife has on a blouse and a +light morning cap that barely stays on the head and that will be wafted +away by the slightest breeze. She is waiting for me. ‘Tea is ready,’ she +says. What a kiss! What tea! What a restful armchair! I seat myself at +the table: upon it are toast, cream, fresh butter----” + +“Then?” + +“Then I don a comfortable coat or jacket, and lose myself with my wife +in an endless, deep avenue of trees: we walk softly, lost in meditation, +or think aloud, dream, count the moments of happiness, like the beating +of the pulse, and listen to the beating and fainting of the heart; we +look for sympathy in Nature----and by degrees we reach a brook or a +field---- The river barely splashes; the ears of corn wave with the +wind. ’T is warm----we seat ourselves in the boat, my wife rows, barely +raising the oars----” + +“Yes, you are a poet, Ilyá!” Stolz interrupted him. + +“Yes, a poet of life, for life is poetry. It is the privilege of people +to distort it! Then we can enter the greenhouse,” continued Oblómov, +himself becoming intoxicated with the ideal which he was depicting. He +extracted from his memory ready, long-present pictures, and therefore he +spoke with warmth, and without stopping. “We look at the peaches, at the +grapes,” he said: “We tell what to send to table; then we return, take a +light breakfast and wait for friends---- There is a note for my wife +from some Márya Petróvna, with a book or music; or a pine-apple has been +sent us as a present, or in our own garden a monster melon has ripened, +and we send it to some good friend, for to-morrow’s dinner, and we go +there ourselves---- In the meantime everything is busy in the kitchen; +the cook is running around in an apron and cap as white as snow: he puts +down one pot, takes up another; there he stirs, here he begins to mix +the dough; there he pours out some water--the knives are rattling--they +are chopping some spinach--there they turn the ice-cream freezer---- ’T +is a pleasure to look into the kitchen before dinner, to open a +saucepan, sniff, take a glance at the making of the cakes, and beating +of the cream. Then to lie down on the sofa; the wife reads aloud +something new; we stop, quarrel a bit---- But there are guests coming, +say, you and your wife.” + +“Bah, you are getting me married, too?” + +“By all means! Two, three friends more,--the same old faces. We take up +the unfinished conversation of yesterday. Then come jokes, or there +falls upon us an eloquent silence, a meditation,--not on account of the +loss of some place, not on account of some affair of the Senate, but +from the fulness of satisfied desire,--a meditation of enjoyment---- You +will hear no philippics, with foam upon the lips, against an absent +person; you will not notice a glance cast at you that promises you the +same the moment you have closed the door. You will not dip your bread in +his salt cellar whom you do not love, who is not good. In the eyes of +the interlocutors you will perceive sympathy, in their jests, a sincere, +harmless laughter---- Everything from the soul! What is in the eyes, is +in the words and hearts. After dinner--a mocha, a Havana cigar on the +terrace----” + +“You are painting me there the same that has been with our fathers and +grandfathers.” + +“No, not the same,” retorted Oblómov, almost offended. “How can you say +so? Do you suppose my wife would be preserving jams and mushrooms? Would +she be counting skeins, and looking after the homespun? Would she be +boxing the servant girls’ ears? Don’t you hear?--There would be music, +books, piano, fine furniture!” + +“Well, and you yourself?” + +“I myself would not be reading last year’s newspapers, would not travel +in a kolymága, would not eat noodles and goose meat, and would have my +cook taking lessons in the English club or at the ambassador’s.” + +“And then?” + +“Then, when the heat would subside, I should send a carriage with the +samovár, with a dessert, to the birch forest, or else, to the field, on +the newly mown grass, I should have carpets spread between the hayricks, +and there we should be staying in bliss until cold hash and beefsteak. +The peasants are returning from the field, with their scythes over their +shoulders; there creeps by a waggon with hay that conceals the vehicle +and the horse; above, a peasant’s cap, adorned with flowers, and a +child’s head stick out of the hay; there, a crowd of barefooted old +women, with sickles, talk aloud---- Suddenly they notice their masters, +and they grow silent, and bow low. + +“’T is damp in the field, and dark; a mist, like an inverted sea, hovers +over the rye; the horses jerk their shoulders and stamp their hoofs: ’t +is time to go home. In the house the fires are lit; in the kitchen there +is a mighty rattle of knives; there is a pan of mushrooms, cutlets, +berries----there is music----Casta diva--Casta diva!” sang out Oblómov. +“I cannot mention with indifference Casta diva,” he said, after singing +the beginning of the cavatina; “how that woman weeps her heart away! +What melancholy there is in those sounds---- And no one around her knows +anything---- She is alone---- The secret weighs heavily upon her; she +confides it to the moon----” + +“Do you like that aria? I am very glad: Ólga Ílinski sings it +beautifully. I ’ll introduce you to her,--what a voice, what singing! +And what a charming child she herself is! However, maybe I am a +prejudiced judge: I have a small weakness for her---- But, don’t let me +distract you,” Stolz added: “Go ahead with your description!” + +“Well,” continued Oblómov, “what more?----yes, that ’s all---- The +guests scatter to the side buildings, to the pavilions; the next day +they go in different directions: one to fish, another to hunt; a +third,--well, just sits down----” + +“How, with nothing in his hands?” asked Stolz. + +“What do you want? Well, with a handkerchief, if you please. Why, would +you not like to pass such an existence?” asked Oblómov, “or, is n’t that +an existence?” + +“All my life that way?” asked Stolz. + +“To your grey hair, to the grave. This is life!” + +“No, it is not.” + +“How not? What is lacking here? Just consider that you would not see a +single poor, suffering face, no care, not a single question about the +Senate, exchange, shares, reports, audience at the minister’s, ranks, +increase of salary. Nothing but soul-felt conversations. You would never +have to move from one house to another,--that in itself is worth +something! And you say that is not life?” + +“That is not life!” Stolz repeated stubbornly. + +“What is it then according to you?” + +“That is----” Stolz fell to musing and was trying to find a proper +expression for such a life, “I should call it---- Oblómovism!” he +finally said. + +“Ob-lóm-ov-ism!” Oblómov uttered slowly, wondering at the strange word, +and pronouncing it by syllables: “Ob-lóm-ov-ism!”--he looked strangely +and fixedly at Stolz. “What, then, in your opinion, is the ideal of +life? What is not Oblómovism?” he asked timidly, without passion. “Do +not all strive for the same thing that I am dreaming of? Say yourself,” +he added more boldly, “is not the aim of all our running, passions, +wars, commerce, politics the obtaining of peace, is it not a striving +for that ideal of a lost paradise?” + +“Your very Utopia is of the Oblómov kind,” retorted Stolz. + +“Everybody is in search of rest and quiet,” Oblómov defended himself. + +“Not all, and you yourself did not look for that in life ten years ago.” + +“What did I look for?” Oblómov asked, perplexed, as he mentally +transferred himself into the past. + +“Try to recall it. Where are your books and translations?” + +“Zákhar has put them somewhere,” answered Oblómov, “they are somewhere +in the corner here.” + +“In the corner!” Stolz said reproachfully. “In this same corner lie your +intentions ‘to serve, while strength lasts, because Russia needs hands +and heads to exploit its inexhaustible resources’--I am quoting your +words: ‘to work, in order to rest more sweetly; and to rest means to +live with the other, aristocratic, artistic side of life, the life of +artists, poets.’ Has Zákhar stored away all these intentions also in the +corner? Do you remember, you had intended, after having studied from +books, to travel in foreign countries, in order to know and love yours +better? ‘All life is thought and work,’ you used to repeat then: ‘an +unnoticed, dark, but incessant work, and to die with the consciousness +of having done your work’--well, in what corner does all that lie now?” + +“Yes----yes----” said Oblómov, restlessly following every word of +Stolz’s, “I do remember, I really did----it seems---- That ’s so!” he +suddenly exclaimed, as the past returned to him. “Why, Andréy, we had +made up our minds to crisscross Europe, to walk through all of +Switzerland, to burn our feet on Mount Vesuvius, to go down to +Herculaneum. We almost went insane! How many foolish things!----” + +“Foolish things!” Stolz repeated reproachfully. “Did you not say in +tears, as you looked at the engravings of Raphael’s Madonnas, at +Correggio’s Night, at the Apollo Belvedere: ‘Lord! Shall I really never +be able to gaze at the originals and be dumb with terror at the thought +that I am standing before the productions of Michael Angelo, Titian, and +that I tread the soil of Rome? Shall I pass my life seeing these +myrtles, cypresses, and orange trees in hothouses, and not in their +native home? Not to breathe the air of Italy, not to drink in the azure +of its sky!’ And what superb fireworks you used to send out of your +head. Foolish things!” + +“Yes, yes! I remember,” said Oblómov, as he lost himself in the past. +“You once took me by my hand and said to me: ‘Let us promise not to die +before having seen all that!----” + +“I remember,” continued Stolz, “how you once brought me a translation +from Say, with a dedication to me upon my birthday: I still have the +whole translation. How you shut yourself up with the teacher of +mathematics, and wanted by all means to find out what good there was in +knowing circles and squares, and then you gave it up before you were +half way through, without having found it out! You began to study +English--and you did not learn it! And when I made a plan of a journey +abroad, and asked you to come to see me at the German universities, you +jumped up, embraced me, and solemnly gave me your hand: ‘I am with you, +Andréy, everywhere with you,’ those are all your words. You have always +been something of an actor. Well, Ilyá? I have been twice abroad; after +having been crammed full of our native wisdom, I sat modestly on the +student benches at Bonn, Jena, Erlangen, then I studied Europe like my +estate. But one might say, a journey is a luxury and not all are able or +obliged to make use of that means; what about Russia? I have seen Russia +up and down. I work----” + +“Sometime you ’ll stop working,” Oblómov remarked. + +“I shall never stop. Why should I?” + +“When you have doubled your capital,” said Oblómov. + +“Not when I increase it fourfold.” + +“What is all this unrest for,” he said after a silence, “if it is not +your aim to provide for the future and to retire later for a rest?” + +“Country Oblómovism!” said Stolz. + +“Or by service to gain importance and position in society, and then in +honourable indolence to enjoy a well-deserved rest----” + +“Petersburg Oblómovism!” exclaimed Stolz. + +“When is one to live, pray?” Oblómov replied with annoyance to Stolz’s +remarks. “Why should one worry a whole life away?” + +“For work’s sake, and for nothing else. Work is the image, contents, +element, and aim of life, at least, of my life. You have driven work out +of life: what is it like now? I ’ll try to raise you, maybe, for the +last time. If you will be staying here after that, with your Tarántevs +and Aleksyéevs, you will go to perdition, and be a burden to yourself. +Now or never!” he concluded. + +Oblómov listened, fixing his excited eyes upon him. His friend had, so +to say, placed a mirror before him, and he became frightened as he +recognised himself. + +“Do not scold me, Andréy, but really help me!” he began with a sigh. “I +am tormented myself by it, and if you had seen or heard me only to-day, +how I am digging my own grave and lamenting over myself, you would never +have had the courage to blame me so much. I know and understand all, but +I have no strength and no will. Give me your will-power and mind, and +lead me where you wish. I shall probably go with you, but alone I will +never move from the spot. You are saying the truth: ‘Now or never!’ +Another year, and it will be too late!” + +“Is it you, Ilyá?” said Andréy. “I remember you as a slender, lively +boy, as you walked every day from Prechístenka to Kúdrino; there, in the +garden----you have not forgotten the two sisters? You have not forgotten +Rousseau, Schiller, Goethe, Byron, which you used to carry to them, and +you took away from them the novels of Cottin, Janlis----you put on such +importance before them, you wanted to purify their taste?----” + +Oblómov jumped up from his bed. “What, you remember that too, Andréy? +That is so! I dreamt with them, whispered hopes of the future to them, +developed plans, ideas, and--feelings too, secretly from you, lest you +should ridicule me. All that is dead, it was never repeated! Where has +it all gone to, and why has it been extinguished? Incomprehensible! +There have been no storms, no violent perturbations with me; I have not +lost anything; no yoke burdens my conscience; it is as pure as glass; no +stroke has killed ambition in me. God knows why all that has gone!” He +sighed. “Do you know, Andréy? There has never burnt in my life, neither +a redeeming, nor a destructive fire! It has never resembled a morning +upon which gradually fall colours and fire until it is changed into day, +as with others; and then it flames up, and boils, moves in the brilliant +midday, and then softly, very softly, becomes paler and paler, and +naturally and gently dies out towards evening. No, my life began with +the extinction! Strange to say, it is so! From the first moment that I +have been conscious of myself, I have felt that I am already being +extinguished. I began to go out when I was writing documents in the +chancery; I was going out when, later, I read in books truths that I did +not know what to do with in life; I was going out among my friends, as I +listened to the disputes, gossips, malicious teasings, ill-minded and +cold prattle, emptiness, and as I looked at the friendship that was +supported by aimless and unsympathetic meetings; I was going out in the +languid and indolent saunterings along the Névski Prospect, among racoon +furcoats and beaver collars,--at evening entertainments, receptions, +where I was gladly received as a possible prospective bridegroom; I was +going out and trifling away life and reason when I migrated from the +city to the country, and from the country back to the Gorókhovaya +street, measuring spring by the arrival of oysters and lobsters, autumn +and winter by reception days, summer by excursions, and life in general +by an indolent and restful dreaming, like the rest---- Even my ambition, +what did I waste it upon? To order a garment from a well-known tailor, +in order to find my way into a certain house, in order that Prince P. +should press my hand. And ambition is the salt of life! What has become +of it? Either I did not understand this life, or it is good for nothing, +and I knew and saw nothing better, and no one showed it to me. You used +to appear and disappear like a comet, brilliantly, swiftly, and I forgot +all about it, and went out----” + +Stolz no longer answered with a careless banter Oblómov’s speech. He +listened and kept a grim silence. + +“You told me lately that my face was not quite fresh, that it was +crushed,” continued Oblómov. “Yes, I am a threadbare, old, worn-out +coat, but not from the effect of the climate, and labour, but because +for twelve years light was imprisoned within me; it sought an exit, and +only burnt the prison, and did not get its liberty, and went out. Thus, +my dear Andréy, have passed twelve years of mine, and I lost the desire +to awaken.” + +“Why did you not tear yourself away and run somewhere, instead of +perishing in silence?” Stolz asked impatiently. + +“Whither?” + +“Whither? If you could do nothing better, with your peasants to the +Vólga: there is more motion there, there are there some kind of +interests, aims, work. I should have gone to Siberia, to Sitka----” + +“You prescribe such dreadfully strong measures!” Oblómov remarked +languidly. + +“I am not alone in that. There is Mikháylov, Petróv, Seménov, Aleksyéev, +Stepánov---- You can’t count them all: our name is legion!” + +Stolz was still under the influence of that confession and he was +silent. Then he sighed. “Yes, much water has flowed since then!” he +said. “I will not leave you as you are; I ’ll take you away from here, +first abroad, and then into the country: you will grow a little thinner, +you will stop pining away, and we shall find some work for you----” + +“Yes, let us get away from here!” the words escaped from Oblómov. + +“To-morrow we will apply for a passport abroad, then we will pack up---- +I will not leave you, do you hear, Ilyá?” + +“It is always to-morrow with you!” retorted Oblómov, as though coming +down from the clouds. + +“You would prefer, ‘Don’t put off for to-morrow what you can do to-day?’ +What a hurry! It is too late now,” Stolz added. “In two weeks we shall +be far away----” + +“You talk of two weeks, my friend! How so? Let us consider it properly +and get ready---- I ’ll have to get some carriage----say rather in three +months.” + +“Talk of a carriage! We shall travel to the border in a stage coach, or +in a steamer as far as Lubeck, that will be much more convenient. There +we shall find railroads in many places.” + +“And what about the house, and Zákhar, and Oblómovka? Some kind of +arrangements will have to be made,” Oblómov defended himself. + +“Oblómovism, Oblómovism!” said Stolz, laughing; then he took a candle, +wished Oblómov good-night, and went to bed. “Now or never!--Remember!” +he added, as he turned back to Oblómov and closed the door behind him. + +“Now or never!” were the first threatening words he thought of as he +awoke in the morning. He rose from his bed, walked three times up and +down the room, and looked into the sitting-room where Stolz was sitting +and writing. “Zákhar!” he called out, but he did not hear him jumping +down from the oven bed. Zákhar did not make his appearance,--Stolz had +sent him to the post-office. Oblómov walked up to his dusty table, sat +down, picked up a pen, dipped it in the inkstand, but there was no ink +in it, looked for some paper, but there was none. He fell to musing, and +mechanically began to draw with his finger in the dust, then he looked +down to see what he had written: it turned out to be “Oblómovism.” He +hurriedly wiped away the writing with his sleeve. That word he had been +dreaming of in the night: it was written in flaming letters upon the +wall, as at Belshazzar’s feast. Zákhar arrived and when he found Oblómov +not in his bed, he dimly looked at his master, wondering why he should +be on his legs. In that dull glance of astonishment was written: +“Oblómovism!” “One single word,” thought Ilyá Ilyích, “but how +poisonous!----” + +Zákhar took, as usual, the comb, brush, and towel, and stepped towards +his master to fix his hair. “Go to the devil!” Oblómov exclaimed angrily +and knocked the brush out of Zákhar’s hands, and Zákhar himself dropped +the comb on the floor. + +“Would you not like to lie down again?” asked Zákhar. “If so, I shall +fix the bed for you.” + +“Bring me ink and paper,” answered Oblómov. + +He fell to musing over the words: “Now or never!” As he listened +inwardly to this despairing appeal of reason and willpower, he +consciously weighed the little willpower that was left to him, whither +he would carry it, into what he would put that paltry remnant. After +having pondered over it painfully, he seized the pen, dragged a book out +of the corner, and in one hour wanted to read, write, and think all that +he had neglected to read, write, and think in ten years. What was he to +do now? To go ahead, or to remain? This Oblómov question was of more +import to him than Hamlet’s. To go ahead,--that would mean at once +doffing his comfortable dressing-gown, not only from the shoulders, but +from the soul and mind; together with the cobweb on the walls to sweep +away the cobweb from the eyes, and regain eyesight! What first step +should be made for this? Where begin? “I do not know--I cannot--no, I am +begging the question, I do know, and---- And here is Stolz by my side; +he will tell me. What will he tell me? ‘In a week,’ he will say, ‘you +must sketch a detailed instruction for your plenipotentiary and send him +into the village. Get your Oblómovka mortgaged, buy some more land, send +a plan of new buildings, give up your house, procure a passport, and go +abroad for six months, to get rid of your surplus fat, to throw off the +weight, to refresh the soul with the atmosphere of which you have +dreamed long ago with your friend, to live without a dressing gown, +without Zákhar and Tarántev, to put on your own socks and take off your +own boots, sleep only at night, travel where all travel, on railroads, +steamboats, and then---- Then to settle in Oblómovka, to find out what +sowing and threshing is, why peasants are poor or well-to-do, walk over +the fields, go to elections, to the factory, to the mill, the docks. At +the same time you are to read newspapers, books, and become excited why +the English have sent a warship to the East----’ That ’s what he will +say! That ’s what is meant by going ahead, and thus it is to be all my +life! Farewell, poetical ideal of life! That is some kind of a +blacksmith shop, not life! There is in it an eternal fire, hammering, +heat, din---- But when is one to live? Would it not be better to stay? +To stay means to put on a shirt over all, to hear the patter of Zákhar’s +feet as he jumps down from his couch, to dine with Tarántev, to think +less about anything, never to finish the “Voyage to Africa,” to grow +peacefully old in these chambers, at the house of Tarántev’s +ladyfriend.” + +“Now or never!” “To be or not to be!” Oblómov was about to rise from his +chair, but his foot did not at once find its way into the slipper, and +he sat down again. + + + + + Nikoláy Aleksándrovich Dobrolyúbov. (1836-1861.) + + + Dobrolyúbov was the most powerful of critics belonging to the school + of Byelínski. In the short period of three years in which he devoted + himself exclusively to criticism, he produced four large volumes of + minute analyses of the intellectual and social movements at the end of + the fifties. His most famous essay is _What is Oblómovism?_ in which + he places all the heroes of previous novels in the same category with + the hero in Goncharóv’s story. Dobrolyúbov was born in Nízhni-Nóvgorod + as the son of a poor priest. He studied at a Seminary and at the + Pedagogical Institute at St. Petersburg, struggling all the time + against want. He practised much asceticism, and kept strict account of + himself and his mental evolution by means of a diary. He later + transferred this asceticism and scrupulous self-examination to his + literary work. + + + WHAT IS OBLÓMOVISM? + +It was remarked long ago that all the heroes of the most noted Russian +stories and novels suffer from not seeing any aim in life and from not +finding any proper occupation for themselves. On account of this they +feel ennui and a dislike for all kinds of work, thus presenting a +striking similarity to Oblómov. Indeed, open, for example, _Evgéni +Onyégin_, _The Hero of Our Time_, _Who is to be Blamed_, _Rúdin_, or +_Useless Men_, or _Hamlet of Shchigróv County_,[13]--in every one of +them you will find traits that are literally identical with those in +Oblómov---- + +----One feels the breeze of a new life when, after reading Oblómov, one +stops to think what it is that has called forth this type in literature. +It cannot be ascribed solely to the personal talent of the author and to +the breadth of his views. Great talent and the broadest and humanest +conceptions are to be found also in the authors who have produced the +former types, mentioned above. But the fact is that since the appearance +of the first of these, Onyégin, up to the present, thirty years have +passed. What was then in the embryo, what was then whispered in +indistinct words, has now assumed a definite, concrete form, has been +proclaimed openly and aloud. The trite phrase has lost its meaning; +there has arisen in society itself the need for actual work. + +Béltov[14] and Rúdin, men with really high and noble tendencies, not +only could not grasp the necessity, but could not even imagine the near +possibility of a terrible, mortal conflict with actualities that +oppressed them. They entered into a deep unknown forest, walked over a +dangerous bog, saw under their feet various reptiles and serpents, and +climbed a tree,--partly to see whether they could not discover a road +somewhere, partly to rest and for a time at least to save themselves +from the danger of sinking into the mire or being stung. The people who +followed them waited for them to say something, and looked at them with +respect as at people who had taken the lead. But these leaders saw +nothing from the elevation to which they had climbed: the forest was +very extensive and dense. + +However, while climbing the tree, they have scratched their faces, +wounded the feet, spoiled their hands. They suffer, they are fatigued, +they must rest themselves, after having fixed a comfortable place upon +the tree. It is true, they do nothing for the common good, they have +discovered no way, and they say nothing. Those who stand beneath them +must, without their aid, clear for themselves a road through the forest. +But who will dare to throw a stone at these unfortunate men in order to +make them fall down from their height in which they have settled after +such difficulties, having in view the public good? They have the +sympathy of the others, they are not even required to take part in the +clearing of the forest; another work fell to their lot, and they did it. +If it led to nothing, it is not their fault. Every one of the former +authors could look at his Oblómov hero from that standpoint, and he was +right. To this was also added the circumstance that the hope of finding +a way out from the forest upon the road was long maintained by the whole +crowd of the travellers, just as their confidence was long maintained in +the far-sightedness of the leaders who had climbed the tree. + +But by degrees the affair becomes clearer, and it takes a different +turn. The leaders have taken a liking to the tree: they very eloquently +discuss the ways and means of issuing from the bog and from the forest. +They have found on the tree some kind of fruit which they enjoy, after +throwing down the shell. They invite a few of the select from the crowd +to come to them, and these climb up and stay there, not to look for the +road, but to eat the fruit. They are now Oblómovs in the true sense. The +poor travellers who stand below sink in the mire, serpents sting them, +reptiles frighten them, and branches strike their faces. At last, the +crowd decides to be doing something, and want to get back those who have +lately climbed the tree; but the Oblómovs keep silent and glut +themselves on the fruit. Then the crowd turns to its former leaders and +begs them to come down and to help them in the common work. But the +leaders again repeat the old trite phrases that it is necessary to find +the road, but that it is useless to think of clearing the forest. + +It is then that the poor travellers see their mistake, and turn their +backs on them and say: “Sure enough, you are all Oblómovs!” And they +begin to work with a vim and without cessation: they cut down the trees, +make a bridge with them through the bog, lay out a path, kill the +serpents and reptiles that are in their way, and no longer pay any +attention to those clever fellows with their strong natures, those +Pechórins and Rúdins, on whom they had all their dependence before and +whom they so admired. At first the Oblómovists look calmly at the common +movement, but later, as is their wont, they lose courage and begin to +cry: + +“Oh, oh! Don’t do that; leave off!” they cry as they notice that the +tree upon which they are sitting is about to be cut down. “Consider, we +might be killed, and then there will perish with us all those beautiful +ideas, all those elevated sentiments, all those humane tendencies, that +eloquence, that pathos, that love for everything beautiful and noble, +which ever lived in us. Stop, stop! What are you doing?” + +But the travellers have heard these beautiful phrases a thousand times, +and they continue their work, without paying any attention to them. The +Oblómovists have another chance to save their reputation: let them climb +down from the tree, and fall in with the work of the others. But, as +usual, they are at a loss what to do. “How do you expect us all of a +sudden?” they repeat in despair, and they continue to hurl their futile +curses against the stupid crowd that has lost respect for them. + +The crowd, however, is right. If it has become conscious of the +necessity for actual work, it can be of no consequence to it whether +Pechórin stands before it, or Oblómov. We do not assert that Pechórin +would act in the given circumstances precisely like Oblómov; these very +circumstances cause him to develop in an entirely different direction. +But the types which a mighty genius creates are lasting: there are even +now some men living who represent, so to say, a chip of Onyégin, +Pechórin, and so forth, not in the form in which they might have +developed in other circumstances, but just exactly as they are +represented by Púshkin, Lérmontov, and Turgénev. But in the social +consciousness they are evermore changed into Oblómov. + +It cannot be said that this change is already accomplished: no, even now +thousands of persons are wasting their time in talking, and thousands of +others are ready to regard this talking as work. But that this +transformation is beginning, is proved by the type of Oblómov which +Goncharóv has created. Its appearance would be impossible, if the +conviction had not grown ripe in at least a small part of society that +those quasi-talented natures that caused so much delight in former days +are quite insignificant. Formerly they were cloaked by all kinds of +mantles, adorned with all kinds of coiffures, and they attracted to +themselves by all kinds of talents. But now Oblómov appears before us +divested of his adornments, just as he is, uncommunicative, removed from +a beautiful pedestal to a soft divan, covered with an ample morning +robe, instead of a mantle. The question, What is he doing? Wherein is +the meaning and aim of his life? is put directly and clearly, and it is +not obscured by side questions. This is so, because the time for social +labour has at last come or is just coming. For this reason we say that +we see in Goncharóv’s novel a sign of the time. + +Let us, indeed, see how the point of view has changed which was held in +regard to those cultivated and glib accumbents who in former days were +taken for real social workers. + +Here is before you a young man; he is very handsome, agile, and +cultured. He makes his entry in fashionable society and he has success +there. He drives to the theatre, to balls and masquerades; he dresses +and dines superbly; he reads books and writes very orthographically. His +heart is agitated only by the routine of fashionable life, but he has +also an idea about higher questions. He likes to talk of passions, + + Of prejudices centuries old + And fateful mysteries of the tomb. + +He has a few honourable rules; he is capable + + Of changing to light tenant pay + The yoke of old manorial labour; + +he is capable of not taking advantage of the inexperience of a girl whom +he does not love; he is capable of not ascribing any special value to +his worldly successes. He stands so far above the fashionable society +which surrounds him that he has arrived at the consciousness of its +inanity; he is even able to leave that society and to settle in the +country; only, not knowing what work to find for himself, time weighs +heavily upon him. Having nothing to do, he quarrels with his friend and +frivolously kills him in a duel. A few years later he again makes his +appearance in society and falls in love with a woman whose love he +himself rejected before, because he would have been compelled to +renounce his roving life for her. You recognise Onyégin in this man. But +take a good look at him: it is Oblómov. + +There is another man before you, with a more passionate soul, with a +broader egoism. He has, as it were, all that by nature which forms an +object of care to Onyégin. He does not worry about his toilet and +apparel; he is a man of the world without all that. He does not need to +pick his words and to shine with his tinsel knowledge: without all that +his tongue is as sharp as a razor. He actually despises men, well +knowing their weaknesses; he really knows how to conquer the hearts of +women, not for a short moment, but for a long time, often for ever. +Everything that hampers his way he knows how to remove or destroy. He +has only one misfortune: he does not know whither to go. His heart is +empty and cold to everything. He has experienced everything, and even +while a young man all pleasures which one can get for money palled on +him; he also loathes the love of worldly beauties, because it has given +nothing to his heart; he is tired of the sciences, because he sees that +neither glory nor happiness depend upon them, that ignoramuses are the +happiest people, and that glory is a matter of success; dangers of war +soon wearied him, because he saw no sense in them and because he readily +got used to them. + +In fine, even the sincere, pure love of a country girl whom he really +likes annoys him: he does not find even in her any satisfaction for his +impulses. But what impulses are they? Whither do they draw him? Why does +he not give himself over to them with the whole power of his soul? It is +because he himself does not understand them and does not take the +trouble of thinking what to do with his power of soul. So he passes all +his life in making witticisms at the expense of fools, in disquieting +the hearts of inexperienced maidens, in mixing up with the affairs of +others’ hearts, inviting brawls, showing bravado in trifles, fighting +without any provocation---- You recollect that this is the history of +Pechórin, that with almost such words he explains his character to +Maksím Maksímych. Please, do take a good look at him: you will see +Oblómov even in him. + +Here is another man who walks upon his path with greater +self-consciousness. He not only understands that he is endowed with +great power, but he also knows that he has a great purpose. It seems he +even suspects what that purpose is and where it is to be found. He is +noble, honest, though he frequently does not pay his debts; he discusses +with ardour not trifles, but higher questions; he assures us that he is +ready to sacrifice himself for the good of humanity. In his mind all +questions are solved, everything is brought into a living, harmonious +connection; by his mighty speech he entices inexperienced youths so +that, hearing him, they feel that they have been called to something +great. + +Now, what does he spend his life on? On beginning everything and not +finishing it, on scattering himself in all directions, on following up +things with ardour, without accomplishing them. He falls in love with a +girl who finally tells him that, in spite of her mother’s prohibition, +she is ready to belong to him; whereat he answers: “Heavens! so your +mother does not give her consent! What a sudden shock! Lord, how soon! +There is nothing to be done,--we must submit.” And that is a real +picture of all his life. You already know that this is Rúdin. No, that +’s again Oblómov. If you will take a good look at this person, and will +place him face to face with the demands of contemporary life, you will +yourself come to this conclusion. + +All these people have this in common: they have no work in life as their +vital necessity, as their heart’s holiness, their religion, that might +organically grow up with them so that to deprive them of it would mean +to take their life away. Everything is external with them, nothing has +any roots in their natures. They may be doing something if compelled by +outward necessity, just as Oblómov made calls wherever Stolz took him, +bought music and books for Ólga, and read what she made him read. But +they have not their souls in the work which accident imposes upon them. +If they were offered gratis all the external comforts which their labour +gives them, they would gladly turn away from their work. By dint of his +Oblómovism, the Oblómov official will stop going to his office, if that +would not interfere with getting his salary and his promotions. The +warrior will make a vow not to touch his arms, if he is offered the same +conditions, provided they permit him also to keep his beautiful uniform +which is very useful upon certain occasions. The professor will abandon +his lectures, the student his studies, the writer his authorship, the +actor will not appear on the stage, the artist will break his chisel or +his palette, to express myself in eloquent style, if they can see their +way of obtaining for nothing that which they now get by work. + +They talk of higher aims, of the consciousness of moral obligations, of +being imbued with the interests of society,--but investigate it all, and +you will find that it is nothing but words and words. Their sincerest, +most heartfelt aim is their aim for rest, for the morning gown, and +their very activity is nothing else but _an honourable morning gown_ +(the expression does not belong to me), with which they cover their +inanity and apathy. Even the most cultivated people, such as possess a +vivid nature and a warm heart, in practical life very easily depart from +their ideas and plans, very readily make their peace with the reality +that surrounds them, though they do not cease speaking of it as low and +contemptible. This means that everything of which they speak and dream +is, in their case, foreign and external; but in the depth of their soul +is rooted one dream, one ideal,--a most undisturbed rest, quietism, +Oblómovism. Many go even so far as not to be able to imagine a man +working for the love of it, from predilection---- + +----If I now see a landed proprietor discussing the rights of humanity +and the necessity for the development of the individual,--I know from +his first words that he is an Oblómov. + +If I meet an official who complains of the intricacy and laboriousness +of the official routine,--he is an Oblómov. + +If I hear from an officer tirades on the weariness of parades and bold +discussions of the uselessness of slow steps, etc., I have no doubt that +he is an Oblómov. + +When I read in the periodicals liberalising sallies against malfeasance, +and expressions of joy that at last that which we have been hoping and +wishing for has been done,--I think that these must be correspondences +from Oblómovka. + +When I am in a circle of cultivated people who feel warmly for the needs +of humanity and who for a series of years have with undiminished zeal +been telling the same anecdotes, or at times even new ones, about +bribe-takers, about oppressions, about illegalities of all kinds,--I +involuntarily feel that I am transferred to old Oblómovka. + +Stop these people in their noisy disputations and say to them: “You say +that so and so is wrong; well, what is to be done?” They do not know. +Propose the simplest means to them, and they will say: “But pray, why so +suddenly?” You may be sure they will say that, because Oblómovs cannot +speak otherwise. Continue your conversation with them and ask them: +“What do you intend to do?” They will give you the same answer which +Rúdin gave to Natálya: “What is to be done? Of course, submit to fate. +What is to be done? I know too well how bitter, how hard and intolerable +it is, but judge yourself”----and so forth. You will get nothing else +out of them, because upon all of them is the stamp of Oblómovism. + +Who will, at last, stir them from the spot with the almighty word +“Forwards!” of which Gógol has dreamed so much and for which Russia has +been waiting so long and so yearningly? So far there is no answer to +this question, neither in society, nor in literature. Goncharóv, who +knew how to grasp and represent to us our Oblómovism, could not help +paying his tribute to the universal delusion which still holds strong +sway over our society; he decided to bury Oblómovism and to hold a +funeral sermon over it. “Farewell, old Oblómovka, you have lived your +day,” he says with the lips of Stolz, but he tells an untruth. All +Russia that has read or will read Oblómov will not agree with it. No, +Oblómovka is our real country; its owners are our educators, its three +hundred Zákhars are ever ready for our services. In every one of us +there is a goodly part of Oblómov, and it is still too early to write +the inscription on our tomb. + + [13] These works are by the following authors: Púshkin, Lérmontov, + Gértsen, Turgénev, Saltykóv, Turgénev. + + [14] Hero in _Who is to be Blamed?_ + + + + + Iván Sergyéevich Turgénev. (1818-1883.) + + + Turgénev is the most noted of the novelists who began their literary + career in the forties. He was brought up in the estate of his father, + in the Government of Orél. His early impressions were extremely + unpleasant: his father belonged to the brutal type of the old landed + proprietors, and his mother developed, after the death of her husband, + similar repellent characteristics. Thus Turgénev, who was himself + possessed of a soft and refined nature, received an early bias against + the whole institution of serfdom. In 1833 Turgénev entered the St. + Petersburg University, and five years later he went to Berlin to + finish his education. He had tried writing poetry before, but he met + with little success. Upon his return to Russia he wrote _Parásha_, a + novel in verse, in which the Romantic incident of the story is + tempered by a goodly admixture of realism. It at once attracted + attention, and Turgénev was fairly launched into literature. But he + became a power in literature only at the end of the forties when he + began to publish his series of sketches from the life of the peasants + under the name of _Memoirs of a Hunter_: their effect was tremendous: + it was the first time that the public read sympathetic stories about + the serfs, and they did a great deal to hasten the emancipation. The + government looked awry at this tendency of Turgénev’s novels, and when + he, in 1852, wrote a eulogistic essay on Gógol, who had just died, he + was banished to his estate. Upon his release, he went abroad where he, + with short interruptions, passed the rest of his days. Then followed + that series of brilliant novels, _Dimítri Rúdin_, _Faust_, _A Nest of + Gentlefolk_, which made him famous throughout Europe. In 1862 appeared + his _Fathers and Sons_. In this novel he attempted to give a picture + of the new tendencies in Russian society. But he had been too long + away from Russian surroundings, and so he has been blamed for not + having grasped the positive characteristics of the younger generation. + His later productions are tinged by pessimism, which finds its most + pronounced expression in his _Poems in Prose_. + + The following translations of Turgénev’s works have been published: + _After Death_, in Modern Age, 1883. _Annals of a Sportsman_, extracts + in _Photographs from Russian Life_, in Fraser’s Magazine, and in + Graham’s Magazine, 1854; _Russian Life in the Interior_, London, 1855; + _Annals of a Sportsman_, translated from the French by F. P. Abbott + (Leisure Hour Series, No. 164), New York, 1885; _Tales from the + Note-book of a Sportsman_, translated by E. Richter, London, 1895. + _The Antchar_, in Galaxy, 1873. _Asya_, under title _Assja_, in + Galaxy, 1877; _Annouchka_, translated from the French by F. P. Abbott, + Boston, 1884. _Daughter of Russia_, translated by G. W. Scott (Seaside + Library), New York, 1882. _Desperate_, in Cosmopolitan, 1888. _Dimitri + Roudine_ (Leisure Hour Series), New York, 1873 (reprinted from Every + Saturday, 1873). _The Dream_, in Home Journal, 1878. _Fathers and + Sons_, translated by E. Schuyler, New York, 1867, London, 1888, and + (Leisure Hour Series and Seaside Library) New York, 1883; _Fathers and + Children_, New York, 1883. _Faust_, in Galaxy, 1872. _First Love_, and + _Punin and Baburin_, translated by S. Jerrold, London, 1884. _Hamlet + and Don Quixote_, translated by J. Král and P. Durdík, in Poet Lore, + vol. iv. _The Idiot_, London, 1887, and in Temple Bar, 1870. _A Leaf + of the Steppes_, in London Society, and in Living Age, 1873; _Nobleman + of the Steppes_, in Scribner’s Monthly, 1877. _The Living Mummy_, in + Scribner’s Monthly, 1876. _Liza_, translated by W. R. S. Ralston, + London, 1869 and 1884, and New York, 1872. _Mumu_, and _Diary of a + Superfluous Man_, translated by H. Gersoni, New York, 1884. _Novels_ + (containing _Dimitri Roudine_,--_Fathers and Sons_, translated by E. + Schuyler, _Liza_, translated by Ralston, _On the Eve_, by Turner, + _Smoke_, by West, _Spring-floods_, by S. M. Butts, _A Leaf of the + Steppes_, by W. H. Browne), 6 vols., New York, 1874-5. _On the Eve_, + translated by C. B. Turner, London, 1871, and New York, 1873. _Poems + in Prose_, Boston, 1873; _Senilia, Poems in Prose_, in MacMillan’s + Magazine, vol. xlix, 1887, and Eclectic Magazine, vol. cii, 1887; + _Senilia, Poems in Prose_, translated by S. J. Macmullan, Bristol, + [1890]. _The Priest’s Son_, in Lippincott’s, 1877. _Punin and + Baburin_, translated by G. W. Scott (Seaside Library), New York, 1882. + _The Ruffian_ (?) (Overland Library, No. 13), New York, 188-. _Smoke, + or, Life at Baden_, London, 1868; _Smoke_, translated from the French, + by W. F. West, New York, 1873, and London, 1883. _Song of Triumphant + Love_ (Seaside Library), New York, 1883. _The Sorcerer_, in Appleton’s + 1870; under title _How Russians meet Death_, in Temple Bar, and in + Living Age, 1887. _Spring Floods_, translated by E. Richter, London, + 1896. _Strange Adventure of Lieut. Yergunof_, in Galaxy, 1877. _Tales + from a Stormy Night_, New York, 1891. _Three Meetings_, in + Lippincott’s, 1875. _An Unfortunate Woman_, also _Assya_, translated + by H. Gersoni (Standard Library, No. 142), New York, 1886; _The + Unfortunate One_, translated by A. R. Thompson, London, 1888. + _Vassilissa_, in Romance, 1892. _Virgin Soil_, translated from the + French by T. S. Perry (Leisure Hour Series), New York, 1877, and + London, 1883--translated by A. W. Dilke, London, 1878 and 1879. + _Visions_, in Galaxy, 1872, and in Cornhill, and Living Age, 1880. + _The Watch_, in Lippincott’s, 1876, and in _The Bridal March_, from + the Norwegian of Björnson, and _The Watch_, translated by J. E. + Williams, London, 1893. _Works_ (containing _Dimitri Roudine_, + _Fathers and Sons_, _Liza_, _Smoke_, and _Virgin Soil_), 5 vols., + London, 1889. There is also a complete set of his _Works_, translated + from the Russian by Mrs. Garnett, London, and New York, 1894-99. + + + FROM “FATHERS AND SONS” + +----Arkádi stepped towards his uncle, and he once more felt the touch of +his perfumed moustache upon his own cheeks. Pável Petróvich seated +himself at the table. He was dressed in an elegant morning gown after +the English fashion; his head was embellished by a small fez. This fez +and the carelessly tied neckerchief hinted of the freedom of country +life; but the stiff collar of the shirt, which was not white, but +coloured, as is proper for the morning toilet, stuck with customary +inexorability against the clean-shaven chin. + +“Where is your new friend?” he asked Arkádi. + +“He is not at home. He generally rises early and goes away. The main +thing is, not to pay any attention to him: he does not like ceremonies.” + +“Yes, that is evident.” Pável Petróvich began leisurely to spread some +butter on his bread. “Is he going to stay here long?” + +“That depends. He has stopped here on his way to his father’s.” + +“Where does his father live?” + +“In our Government, some eighty versts from here. He has a small estate +there. He used to be an army surgeon.” + +“Well, well, well! That ’s why I kept on asking myself: ‘Where have you +heard that name Bazárov’? Nikoláy, it seems to me there was a surgeon by +the name of Bazárov in papa’s division.” + +“I think there was.” + +“That ’s right. So that surgeon is his father. Hm!” Pável Petróvich +smoothed his moustaches. “Well, and Mr. Bazárov himself, what is he?” +asked he with deliberation. + +“What Bazárov is?” Arkádi smiled. “If you want, uncle, I ’ll tell you +what he really is.” + +“Do me the favour, dear nephew.” + +“He is a nihilist.” + +“What?” asked Nikoláy Petróvich, and Pável Petróvich raised up his knife +with a piece of butter at the end of the blade, and remained immovable. + +“He is a nihilist,” repeated Arkádi. + +“Nihilist,” muttered Nikoláy Petróvich. “That is from the Latin _nihil_, +nothing, so far as I can judge; consequently that word designates a man +who--who acknowledges nothing?” + +“Say, who respects nothing,” Pável Petróvich interrupted him, starting +again to spread his butter. + +“Who looks at everything from the critical point of view,” remarked +Arkádi. + +“Is not that the same?” asked Pável Petróvich. + +“No, not the same. A nihilist is a man who bows to no authorities, who +accepts not a single principle on faith, no matter with what respect +that principle be surrounded.” + +“And do you call that good?” Pável Petróvich interrupted. + +“It depends, uncle. It ’s good for some, and very bad for others.” + +“I declare. Well, that, I see, is beyond us. We are of the older +generation; we assume that without principles (Pável Petróvich +pronounced this word softly, in the French fashion, Arkádi, on the +contrary, pronounced it hard, with a decided accent on the first +syllable), without principles taken, as you say, on faith, it is +impossible to take a step, or breathe. _Vous avez changé tout cela._ God +grant you health and the rank of general,[15] but we shall only take +pleasure in looking at you, gentlemen----what do you call them?” + +“Nihilists,” Arkádi said distinctly. + +“Yes. Formerly there used to be Hegelists, and now there are nihilists. +Let us see how you are going to exist in the vacuum, in an airless +space. But now, please ring the bell, brother Nikoláy Petróvich; it is +time for me to drink my cocoa.” + +----For some moments silence reigned upon the terrace. Pável Petróvich +sipped his cocoa, and then he suddenly raised his head. + +“There is the nihilist coming to honour us with his presence,” he said +half aloud. + +There was really Bazárov, crossing the beds in the garden. His linen +ulster and trowsers were smeared with mud; a prickly swamp plant +surrounded the band of his old round hat; in his right hand he held a +small bag, and in the bag were crawling living things. He rapidly +approached the terrace and said, nodding: “Good-morning, gentlemen! +Excuse me for being late to tea. I shall be back at once; I just want to +find a place for my captives.” + +“What have you there, leeches?” asked Pável Petróvich. + +“No, frogs.” + +“Do you eat them or raise them?” + +“For experiments,” indifferently answered Bazárov and went into the +house. + +“You see, he is going to cut them up,” remarked Pável Petróvich. “He +does not believe in principles, but in frogs.” + +Arkádi looked with pity at his uncle, and Nikoláy Petróvich stealthily +shrugged his shoulders. Pável Petróvich felt himself that he had made an +infelicitous remark, and began to talk about the estate and the new +manager who had come to him a few days before to complain of Fomá’s +having become useless on account of his reckless ways. + +----Bazárov returned, seated himself at the table, and began hastily to +drink his tea. Both brothers looked at him in silence, and Arkádi threw +stealthy glances, now upon his father, now upon his uncle. + +“Did you have a long tramp?” finally asked Nikoláy Petróvich. + +“You have a small swamp near the aspen grove. I there scared up some +five snipes. Arkádi, you ’ll have some shooting there.” + +“Are you not a hunter?” + +“No.” + +“I understand your specialty is physics?” asked Pável Petróvich in his +turn. + +“Yes, physics; natural sciences in general.” + +“They say the Teutons have of late made great progress in this field.” + +“Yes, the Germans are in this our teachers,” Bazárov answered +carelessly. + +Pável Petróvich had used the word Teutons, instead of Germans, in irony, +but no one took notice of it. + +“Have you such a high opinion of the Germans?” spoke Pável Petróvich +with affected politeness. He began to feel a secret irritation. +Bazárov’s extreme plainness ruffled his aristocratic nature. That son of +a surgeon not only was not abashed, but he answered abruptly and as if +against his will, and in the sound of his voice there was something +harsh, nay, impudent. + +“Their learned men are a fine lot.” + +“Yes, yes. Well, I suppose, you have not the same flattering conception +of the Russian savants.” + +“I guess you are right.” + +“That is a very laudable self-abnegation,” retorted Pável Petróvich, +straightening himself, and throwing his head back. “But how is it Arkádi +Nikoláevich told a little while ago that you did not acknowledge any +authorities? Do you not believe them?” + +“Why should I acknowledge them? And what should I believe? If I am told +a fact, I agree with it, that ’s all.” + +“Do the Germans always tell facts?” spoke Pável Petróvich, and his face +assumed a disinterested, distant expression, just as if he had retired +to some cloudy height. + +“Not all,” answered Bazárov with a slight yawn, evidently not wishing to +continue the discussion. + +Pável Petróvich looked at Arkádi, as if to tell him: “I must say, your +friend is a polite chap.” + +“As for me,” he spoke again with some effort, “I, sinful man, am not +particularly fond of the Germans. Not to mention the Russian Germans: we +all know what kind of birds they are. But I cannot stomach even the +German Germans. Those of the former generations were not half so bad; +they then had, well, a Schiller, or let us say, a Goethe----Brother +thinks quite favourably of them. But now there is such a procession of +chemists and materialists over there----” + +“A decent chemist is twenty times more useful than any poet,” Bazárov +interrupted him. + +“Indeed!” spoke Pável Petróvich, barely raising his eyebrows, as if +falling asleep. “So you do not acknowledge art?” + +“The art to make money, or no more hemorrhoids!” exclaimed Bazárov with +a contemptuous smile. + +“Yes, yes. How you please yourself to jest! So you deny all that? Very +well. So you believe only in science?” + +“I have already reported to you that I believe in nothing. What is +science anyway, science in general? There are sciences, as there are +trades and professions; but science in general does not exist at all!” + +“Very well, sir. Well, and do you assume the same negative attitude in +regard to all the other institutions, generally accepted in human +existence?” + +“What is this, an inquest?” asked Bazárov. + +Pável Petróvich grew slightly pale. Nikoláy Petróvich thought it +necessary to take part in the conversation. + +“We will discuss this matter more thoroughly some other time, dear +Evgéni Vasílich; we shall then get your view, and we shall tell you +ours. I, for my part, am very glad to hear that you busy yourself with +the natural sciences. I have heard that Liebig has made some remarkable +discoveries in regard to the fertilisation of the fields. You could aid +me in my agronomic work by giving me some useful advice.” + +“I am at your service, Nikoláy Petróvich; but what business have we with +Liebig? We must first learn the ABC, and then we may take to books; we +have not yet put our eyes on A.” + +“I should say you _are_ a nihilist,” thought Nikoláy Petróvich. “Still, +let me in case of necessity have recourse to you,” he added aloud. “But +for the present, brother, I think it is time for us to go and have a +talk with the steward.” + +Pável Petróvich rose from his chair. + +“Yes,” he said, without looking at anyone, “it is a misfortune to live +five years in the country, away from great minds! You will just become a +round fool. You are trying not to forget what you have learned, and, +before you know it, it turns out that it is all nonsense, and you are +told that clever people no longer busy themselves with such trifles, and +that you, sir, are an old-fashioned night-cap. What is to be done? It +seems the younger generation is really more clever than we are.” + +Pável Petróvich slowly turned upon his heels and walked away leisurely. +Nikoláy Petróvich went after him. + +“Say, is he always that way?” Bazárov coolly asked Arkádi, when the door +was closed behind the two brothers. + +“Listen, Evgéni, you have treated him altogether too brusquely,” +remarked Arkádi. “You have offended him.” + +“I am not going to pamper these county aristocrats! It is with them +nothing but egotism, manners of society lions, dandyism! Well, he ought +to have continued his activities in St. Petersburg, if he is built that +way---- However, God be with him! I have found a fairly rare specimen of +a water beetle,--_Dysticus marginatus_, do you know it? I ’ll show it to +you!” + +----They began to talk about one of the landowners of the neighbourhood. + +“A scoundrel, a snob of an aristocrat,” calmly remarked Bazárov who had +met him in St. Petersburg. + +“Permit me to ask you,” began Pável Petróvich, and his lips quivered, +“according to your conception, the words ‘scoundrel’ and ‘aristocrat’ +mean one and the same thing?” + +“I said ‘snob of an aristocrat,’” remarked Bazárov, lazily sipping his +tea. + +“Just so. But I suppose you are of the same opinion about aristocrats, +as you are about snobs. I regard it my duty to inform you that I do not +share that opinion of yours. I dare say, I am known as a liberal man and +one who loves progress, and it is for that very reason that I respect +aristocrats, that is, real aristocrats. Remember, dear sir” (at these +words Bazárov turned his eyes to Pável Petróvich), “remember, dear sir,” +he repeated with acrimony, “the English aristocrats. They do not yield +an iota from their privileges, and therefore they respect the rights of +others. They demand the fulfilment of obligations towards them, and +therefore they fulfil their own obligations. The aristocracy gave +England its freedom, and the aristocracy supports it.” + +“We have heard that old song before,” replied Bazárov. “But what do you +wish to prove by it?” + +“I wish to prove by that there thing, dear sir” (when Pável Petróvich +got angry, he purposely said “that there” and “this here,” although he +knew full well that grammar did not permit any such forms. In this +oddity one might perceive a reminiscence of the traditions of the days +of Alexander I. The somebodies of those days were in the habit of using +“that there” and “that yer,” in the rare cases when they spoke their +native language, as much as to say: “We are native Russes, and at the +same time dignitaries, who have a right to disdain scholastic rules”), +“I wish to prove by that there thing that without the feeling of one’s +own dignity, without respect to oneself,--and in an aristocrat these +feelings are developed,--there is no secure foundation of society--_bien +public_--the social structure. Individuality, dear sir,--that is the +main thing: human individuality must be as strong as a rock, for +everything rests upon it. I know very well, that you please yourself to +find my habits, my toilet, in fine, my cleanliness, ridiculous, but it +all flows from my feeling of self-respect, from my feeling of duty, yes, +sir, yes, sir--duty. I am living in the country, in the wilderness, but +I do not let myself fall--I respect the man in me.” + +“Permit me to say, Pável Petróvich,” spoke Bazárov, “you claim to +respect yourself, and yet you sit with folded hands; what good is that +to the _bien public_? It would be better, if you respected yourself +less, and did more.” + +Pável Petróvich grew pale. “That is an entirely different question. It +is not my duty to explain to you now, why I am sitting with folded +hands, as you please to express yourself. I only want to say that +aristocratism is a principle, and in our days only immoral and brainless +people can live without principles. I told Arkádi so on the next day +after his arrival, and I repeat it to you. Am I not right, Nikoláy?” + +Nikoláy Petróvich nodded his head. + +“Aristocratism, liberalism, progress, principles,” Bazárov was saying in +the meantime. “Just think how many foreign and useless words! A good +Russian would not take them gratis.” + +“Then what does he want, according to you? Listening to you, one might +conclude that we are living beyond the pale of humanity, beyond its +laws. Why, sir, the logic of history demands----” + +“What do you want to do with that logic? We are getting along without +it.” + +“How so?” + +“We just do. I hope you do not need any logic in order to put a piece of +bread into your mouth, when you are hungry. What good to us are all +these abstractions?” + +Pável Petróvich waved his hands. + +“After that I do not understand you. You insult the Russian nation. I +can’t understand how one can fail to acknowledge principles and rules! +By dint of what do you act?” + +“I told you before, uncle, that we do not acknowledge any authorities,” +interposed Arkádi. + +“We act by dint of what we regard as useful,” spoke Bazárov. “At the +present time the most useful thing is negation,--we negate.” + +“Everything?” + +“Everything!” + +“What? Not only art, poetry----but----it is terrible to say it----” + +“Everything,” repeated Bazárov with inexpressible calm. + +Pável Petróvich stared at him. He had not expected that, while Arkádi +even blushed with joy. + +“But permit me to ask you,” again said Pável Petróvich, “you deny +everything, or, to express myself more correctly, you destroy +everything--but is it not necessary to build up again?” + +“That is not our affair. First, the place has to be cleared.” + +“The contemporary condition of the people demands it,” Arkádi added with +dignity. “We must execute these demands; we have no right to devote +ourselves to the satisfaction of our personal egotism.” + +This last phrase evidently displeased Bazárov: it smacked of philosophy, +that is, of Romanticism, for Bazárov called philosophy Romanticism; but +he did not think it necessary to contradict his young disciple. + +“No, no!” exclaimed Pável Petróvich in a sudden passion. “I do not wish +to believe that you, gentlemen, properly understand the Russian nation, +that you are the representatives of its needs, its aims! No, the Russian +nation is not as you represent it to yourselves. It reveres tradition, +it is patriarchal, it cannot live without faith----” + +“I will not dispute that,” interrupted Bazárov; “I am even willing to +admit that you are right in this.” + +“And if I am right----” + +“And yet it proves nothing.” + +“That ’s it, it proves nothing,” repeated Arkádi with the confidence of +an experienced chess player who, foreseeing the apparently dangerous +move of his antagonist, does not become in the least uneasy. + +“How does it not prove anything?” muttered Pável Petróvich in +wonderment. “So you are going against your nation?” + +“What of it, if I do? People imagine that when it thunders the prophet +Elias is riding in a chariot over the heavens. Well? Shall I agree with +them? Besides, they are Russians, and am I not myself a Russian?” + +“No, you are not a Russian, after what you have just told me! I cannot +acknowledge you as a Russian.” + +“My grandfather was a ploughman,” replied Bazárov with supercilious +pride. “Ask any of your peasants, in whom he will quicker recognise a +countryman of his, in you or me? You do not even know how to talk with +him.” + +“But you speak with him and despise him at the same time.” + +“Why not, if he deserves contempt! You find fault with my tendency, but +who told you that it is accidental in me? that it is not provoked by the +same national spirit that you are championing?” + +“Well, of what good are the nihilists?” + +“It is not for you to decide whether they are any good or not. Don’t you +regard yourself useful?” + +“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please no personalities!” exclaimed Nikoláy +Petróvich, rising from his chair. + +Pável Petróvich smiled and, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder, +compelled him to sit down again. + +“Don’t worry,” he said. “I will not forget myself, by dint of that very +feeling of dignity that the gentleman, the doctor, makes so light of. +Permit me,” he turned again towards Bazárov, “you probably think that +your doctrine is something new. But you imagine that in vain. The +materialism which you preach has been in vogue more than once, and it +has always proved itself insufficient----” + +“Again a foreign word!” interrupted Bazárov. He began to feel annoyed +and his face assumed a coarse coppery colour. “First of all, we preach +nothing; that is not our custom----” + +“Then what are you doing?” + +“I ’ll tell you what we do. In former days, not so long ago, we used to +say that the officials take bribes, that we have no roads, no commerce, +no regular justice.” + +“Yes, yes, you are accusers, I think that is what you call it. I agree +with many of your accusations, but----” + +“Then we came to the conclusion that to prate, nothing but prate, about +our sores is not worth the trouble, that it only leads to triteness and +doctrinarianism; we discovered that our wise men, the so-called leaders +and accusers, were good for nothing, that we were busying ourselves with +nonsense, were talking of art, unconscious creative power, +parliamentarism, of legalism, and the devil knows of what not, when we +ought to have talked of the daily bread, when we were oppressed by most +vulgar superstition, when all our commercial companies burst only +because there was a dearth of honest men, when the very liberty with +which the Government is concerned would hardly do us any good, because +our peasants would as lief rob themselves, if only they could fill +themselves with brandy in the tavern.” + +“Ah,” Pável Petróvich interrupted him, “ah! You have convinced yourself +of all that, and so you have decided not to do anything seriously?” + +“And we decided not to undertake anything,” grimly repeated Bazárov. He +suddenly felt irritated for having entered into a dispute with that +gentleman. + +“And only to scoff?” + +“To scoff.” + +“And that is called nihilism.” + +“And that is called nihilism,” again repeated Bazárov, but this time +with special rudeness. + +Pável Petróvich slightly closed his eyes. + +“Ah, that ’s the way!” he said with a strangely calm voice. “Nihilism is +to help all misery, and you--you--are our deliverers and heroes. Yes. +But why do you hold others in honour, say, those very accusers? Or do +you not prate like the rest?” + +“You may accuse us of anything else, but not of that,” said Bazárov +through his teeth. + +“Well? You act, don’t you? You are getting ready to act?” + +Bazárov did not answer. Pável Petróvich shuddered, but he immediately +controlled himself. + +“Hm!--Act, break--” he continued. “But how are you going to break, not +knowing for what purpose?” + +“We break, because we are a force,” remarked Arkádi. + +Pável Petróvich glanced at his nephew and smiled. + +“Yes, force does not give any accounts of itself,” said Arkádi +straightening himself out. + +“Miserable man!” lamented Pável Petróvich. He was absolutely unable to +hold himself any longer. “If you only thought what you are supporting in +Russia by your despicable phrase? No, that would make an angel lose his +patience! Force! A wild Calmuck, a Mongolian has force too, but of what +good is it to us? We treasure civilisation, yes, sir, yes, sir, dear +sir, we treasure its fruits. Don’t tell me that these fruits are +worthless. The last latherer, _un barbouilleur_, a fiddler who gets five +kopeks for an evening, are more useful than you, because they are the +representatives of a civilisation, and not of a rude Mongolian force! +You regard yourselves as leaders, but you ought to pass your days in a +Calmuck tent! Force! Remember, gentlemen of force, that there are only +four and a half of you, and there are millions of others who will not +permit you to tread under foot their most sacred beliefs and who will +crush you.” + +“If they will crush us, then that is our destiny,” spoke Bazárov. “Only +you are slightly off. We are not as few as you imagine.” + +“What? You think in earnest you will be able to stand out against a +whole nation?” + +“You know, it was a kopek candle that caused the conflagration of +Moscow,” replied Bazárov. + +“Yes, yes. First it is an almost satanic pride, and then contemptuous +scoffing. That ’s what the young generation is carried away with, that +’s what conquers the inexperienced hearts of boys! Just look at them: +one of them is sitting by your side; he almost worships you,--look at +him. (Arkádi turned away and frowned.) This plague has spread far and +wide. I have been told that our artists won’t visit the Vatican in Rome, +that they regard Raphael almost as a fool, because, don’t you see, he is +an authority; but they themselves are impotent and barren to nausea; +their fancy does not rise above a _Girl at the Fountain_, try as they +may! And the girl is horribly painted at that. In your opinion they are +a fine lot, are they not?” + +“In my opinion,” retorted Bazárov, “Raphael is not worth a copper penny, +and they are not better than he.” + +“Bravo! Bravo! Listen, Arkádi! That ’s the way modern young men must +express themselves! When I come to think of it, why should they not +follow you! Formerly young men had to study; they did not like to pass +for ignoramuses, and so they worked, even against their will. But all +they have to say now is: “Everything in the world is bosh!” and that ’s +all there is to it. The young people are happy. And really, formerly +they were nothing but blockheads, but now they have suddenly turned +nihilists.” + +“There, your vaunted feeling of your personal dignity has played you +false,” phlegmatically remarked Bazárov, while Arkádi flamed up and his +eyes glistened. “Our discussion has gone too far---- It seems it would +be better to cut it short altogether. I will then be ready to agree with +you,” he added, rising, “when you will show me one single institution in +our present existence, social or domestic, which does not call for a +complete and merciless negation.” + +“I will show you millions of such institutions,” exclaimed Pável +Petróvich, “millions! For example, the village commune.” + +A cold smile contorted Bazárov’s lips. + +“When it comes to the commune,” he said, “you had better have a talk +with your brother. He, it seems, has discovered in practice what kind of +a thing the commune is, and communal responsibility, temperance, and +similar fine things.” + +“The family, if you please, the family, as it exists with our peasants!” +cried Pável Petróvich. + +“It would be better, I suppose, not to enter into the details of that +affair. Listen, Pável Petróvich, give yourself two days’ time; you will +hardly find anything before that time. Run over all our conditions of +life, consider them all well, while, in the meantime, Arkádi and I +will----” + +“Make light of everything,” interrupted Pável Petróvich. + +“No, cut up frogs. Come, Arkádi! Good-bye, gentlemen!” + +Both friends went out. + + [15] See page 98, line 28. + + + POEMS IN PROSE (SENILIA) + + + NATURE + +I dreamt that I entered an enormous subterranean hall with high vaults. +It was all filled with an even, subterranean light. + +In the very centre of the hall sat a majestic woman in a flowing garment +of a green colour. Bending her head on her hand, she seemed to be buried +in deep meditation. + +I saw at once that that woman was Nature herself, and, with a sudden +chill, a reverential awe entered my soul. + +I approached the woman who was sitting there, and making a respectful +bow: “O our common mother!” I exclaimed. “What are you meditating on? +Are you, perchance, pondering on the future destiny of the human race? +Or, how it may reach the highest possible perfection and happiness?” + +The woman slowly turned to me her dark, piercing eyes. Her lips moved, +and there issued from them a ringing voice, like the clanking of iron. + +“I am thinking how to add greater strength to the muscles of a flea’s +legs, that it may more easily save itself from its enemies. The +equilibrium between attack and defence has been impaired---- It must be +re-established.” + +“What?” I lisped an answer. “Is that what you are thinking about? But +are we not, men, your favourite children?” + +The woman barely frowned: “All creatures are my children,” she spoke, +“and I take equal care of them, and equally exterminate them.” + +“But goodness--reason--justice----” I muttered again. + +“Those are human words,” was heard the woman’s voice. “I know neither +good nor evil---- Reason is not my law, and what is justice? I have +given you life, and I will take it from you and will give it to others, +worms or men----it makes no difference to me---- You defend yourself in +the meantime, and do not bother me!” + +I wanted to retort--but the earth around me gave a dull groan and +trembled, and I awoke. + + + + + Dmítri Vasílevich Grigoróvich. (1822-1900.) + + + Grigoróvich was the son of a landed proprietor, and was born in a + village on the Vólga, in the Government of Simbírsk. His early + childhood he passed at home; at ten years of age he entered a boarding + school in Moscow, and later the School of Engineers, where he studied + at the same time as his friend Dostoévski. Having become infatuated + with art, he transferred himself to the Academy of Arts and there + studied drawing for two years. He began writing in 1844, and attracted + the attention of the public and of the critic Byelínski by his + sketches from the life of the serfs, _The Village_ and _Antón the + Miserable_. These were followed by a large number of shorter stories + and two novels, _The Fishermen_ and _The Emigrants_; they mainly excel + for their artistic landscape painting, in which they abound. His warm + advocacy of emancipation and his sympathetic descriptions of peasant + life have earned for him the name of the Russian Beecher-Stowe. + + Two of his stories have been translated into English: _Cruel City_, + after the Russian, with a sketch of the author, by E. de Pierson + (Sunshine Series, No. 84), London and New York, 1891; _New Year’s Eve_ + (Railway and General Automatic Library), London, [1892]. + + + FROM “THE FISHERMEN” + +A gloomy, grey day. The vault of heaven looks as though lowered, as +though pensively reposing over the silent earth. If it were not for the +warmth of the air, the nascent odour of budding verdure, one might have +thought spring had suddenly been changed into autumn. There are many +such days in the beginning of spring. They resemble the fair, pensive +face of a young girl. All Nature suddenly grows still, like a lively +child in the open, who, having abandoned himself to noisy, boisterous +merriment, and not trusting his strength, suddenly throws himself tired +on the grass and sleeps a sweet sleep. + +In such days you will not hear a sound. Everything living seems to hold +its breath, to get ready for something, to collect its strength for a +noisy celebration of the summer. The flocks are silent, as if +intoxicated by the strong aroma of the unfolding plants, which, lacking +the sunrays, is spreading over the ground; the animals are reclining on +the succulent grass, and hang their heads, or lazily wander about. The +birds dreamily slumber on the branches that are permeated by their +fresh, young sap; the insects are hid under the tree-bark, or have crept +into the narrow seams of the moss that, in an infinitely diminished +form, resembles impassable fir forests; not a fly buzzes in the air; the +air itself seems to be afraid to break the solemn quiet, and touches not +a blade, nor even raises the light down that is left in the meadows by +the young, newly hatched goslings. + +Nothing can be more poetical than such days! A delicate, happily tuned +ear can distinguish, midst this dead silence, a measured, harmonious +singing. Your soul is filled with an inexpressibly pleasant sensation. +But not ecstatic agitation nor pensive sorrow (in which there is a charm +of their own) takes possession of your soul: no! your blood and brain +are in perfect composure; you simply feel happy; your whole being +involuntarily recognises the possibility of quiet, peaceful enjoyments, +of a modest, intimate life with yourself,--a life which you have been, +perchance, long seeking in vain; the capitals, with their din, +splendour, and enticements, do not exist for you: they appear so small +that you do not even notice them. In such moments your heart is light +and free, as in the first years of happy youth; not one evil thought +will enter your head. You are satisfied with yourself, satisfied with +your feelings, satisfied with your loneliness, and you bless Providence +for having given you a chance to live, breathe, and feel. + +It was just such a day when Vanyúsha, early in the morning, bade his +family farewell. The landscape, it seemed, had assumed the most gloomy +and grey appearance in order to rouse in the heart of the lad as little +regret as possible in parting with familiar places. The fisherman’s +family was standing in the yard: it was not numerous now, for Peter, +Vasíli, and their wives and children had left the day before. There were +there in all: Glyeb, his old wife, his son, the adopted child, and +Grandfather Kondráti, who had come to see Vanyúsha off. + +We find them during the most fateful and oppressive minute. The gate +that leads out to the small square is already open; grandfather Kondráti +has already taken back to the cabin the old ikon with which the parents +have blessed their son. It is only left to say: “Come!” but old Glyeb is +still hesitating. Gríshka has meanwhile told the companion of his youth +good-bye; he is standing some distance away; his head is bent, his brows +are knit, but his dark eyes, which are stealthily directed now to one +side of the yard, now to another, clearly indicate that his sorrowful +look is assumed only by necessity, to fit the occasion, and that he does +not share the family’s grief. + +None of those present this minute think of the adopted child. Aunt Ánna +tightly clasps the neck of her beloved child with both her hands; the +face of the old woman is still more tightly pressed against his breast; +in a weak, dying voice she pronounces a disconnected parting prayer. +Before them Glyeb is standing; his eyes are dry; he utters no +complaints, no accusations, no bitter words of blame, but his hands +folded over his breast, the drooping head, the furrows, which one cannot +count upon his high brow, sufficiently indicate that the soul of the old +fisherman is passing through a heavy trial. In vain Grandfather +Kondráti, whom Glyeb always respected and obeyed, tries to console him, +calling to his aid soul-saving words: the words of the old man are +powerless now; they act upon Glyeb as upon a half-witted person: he +hears every word of the grandfather, distinguishes every sound of his +voice, but does not retain them in his memory. Glyeb is still unable to +collect his thoughts: in the last three days the old man had passed +through so much sorrow! The acts of his children have effaced from his +memory the whole sixty years of a quiet, undisturbed, one may even say, +happy life. But however much one may think, or feel grieved, nothing is +gained by it, and time passes. “Come!” says Glyeb. + +Grandfather Kondráti warily unclasps the hands of the old woman who +thoughtlessly and speechlessly is hanging about the neck of her son; +Aunt Ánna has wept her last strength away with her last tears. Ványa +transfers her from his hands to the hands of Kondráti, hastily throws a +bundle with his possession over his shoulder, makes the sign of the +cross and, without raising his tearful eyes, hurries after his father +who meanwhile has bent around the corner of the cabin. A despairing, +heartrending cry, uttered behind him, chains the young lad to the spot. + +“Ványa!--Ványa!” + +“Cease, mother----do not grieve so----God is merciful!” says he, +embracing the old woman who is grasping him in her hands like an +insensate person. + +But the consolations are in vain! Grandfather Kondráti and Ványa +continue their path, while supporting Ánna. Now, they have already +passed the garden, and now, they have crossed the brook. This brook, +witness of youthful years, serves as the last threshold of the paternal +house. Now, they have already reached the footpath, and they begin to +ascend the hill. Memories are crowding in the soul of the young lad; +with every advancing step there is a new parting. + +However much the young fisherman strengthened himself with the thought +that by his action he had saved his old father from injustice and had +freed him from a heavy sin, however strong his faith in Providence was, +yet he could not restrain his tears that of their own accord coursed +down his youthful cheeks. It is, indeed, hard for the first time to part +from your paternal home, and you cannot control your heart: it will not +listen to reason, and is not deceived by fancies and hopes. + +It is even more difficult for a common man to leave his native roof, +than for any other person. No matter how wretched the cabin of the poor +man may be, he is attached to it with all his feelings, with all his +soul. The attachment of the educated man for material objects to which +he has become accustomed, his attachment for his house and his soil, is +quite insignificant in comparison with the attachment of the common man +for the same objects with which he is familiar. This is easily +explained: the mental and spiritual life which more or less absolves man +from a coarse materialism is very limited in the common man. Living +almost exclusively a material, carnal life, he, so to say, grows one +with every object which surrounds him, with every log of his cabin; he +was born there, he has passed his life there without interruption; not +one thought has drawn him away beyond the confines of his native hut: on +the contrary, all his thoughts have been directed to the one object of +never leaving his home. The Russian peasant is pre-eminently a lover of +his family, and domestic in his habits. + +I had once occasion to see a ploughman’s family who were of their own +free will emigrating to the fertile southern Governments, bidding +farewell to their field,--miserable two desyatínas of clayey, almost +worthless, soil. I have in all my life not seen such a terrible parting, +such terrible tears! A mother, who parts from her beloved children, does +not embrace them so passionately and does not kiss them so warmly, as +these peasants kissed the earth that had supported them so many years. +It seemed as though they left themselves in these two plots. Pieces of +earth were even sewed into the amulets of the suckling babes! + +The common man bows to habit: when he parts from his house, he parts +from everything that binds him to the soil. He has lived in his +exclusive, limited sphere; there are no interests for him outside of his +home; he looks with suspicion at the world which transcends the limits +of his customary, narrow conceptions. When he leaves his home, he does +not strengthen himself, as we do, with dreams and hopes: he positively +knows only this,--that he is leaving his home, that he is leaving +everything which binds him to life, and therefore he abandons himself +with all his feelings, with all his soul to grief. + +Having reached the summit of the high ridge of the river bank, from +which the deceased Uncle Akím had once timidly descended with Gríshka to +the cabin of the old fisherman, Glyeb stopped. It was not the rapid +ascent that had tired him: he would rather have walked more rapidly, and +would have gone higher up. A strange weight rested upon the old man’s +heart; he wished to walk a hundred versts without stopping, if the +exhaustion would only allay the persistent pining that was gnawing at +his heart. When Ványa and Grandfather Kondráti, who were still +supporting Ánna, had ascended the hill, Glyeb went up to them: + +“Why did you bring her here?” said he impatiently: “it will not make +things easier. Well, old woman, that will do--say farewell, and the Lord +be with you! Too much parting,--too much weeping! Well, good-bye!” + +“Good-bye, mother!” muttered the son, and for the first time he could +not control himself, and for the first time burst out into tears: he +wept bitterly, like a small boy. + +The old woman shuddered at this sight: her oblivion disappeared, her +strength was resurrected. Drawing aside with her lean hands the kerchief +which covered her head, she cast a senseless glance on all present, as +if not yet quite conscious of what was happening, and then she suddenly, +with the rapidity of lightning, threw herself on her son, and placed her +hands over his head. The cry that accompanied that motion cut as with a +knife the hearts of the two old men. People of Grandfather Kondráti’s +age do not weep: all the tears have been wept, and their source itself +has long ago dried up. But Glyeb had yet seen little grief; and so his +strength left him. However much Glyeb fortified himself, however much he +turned his head aside, and knit his brows, large teardrops of their own +will burst from his eyes and silvered still more his grey beard. He +waved his hand and walked ahead more rapidly. Ványa tore himself away +from the embrace of his mother and ran after him, all the time making +the sign of the cross. + +“Ványa! Ványa!” + +The old woman started after her son; but her legs gave way. She fell +upon her knees and extended her hands before her. + +Ványa meanwhile continued to follow his father. Only once did he turn +back: the cabins, the small squares, the brook, the boats, the +nets,--all had disappeared! At the edge of the hill, which hid the +indentation of the shore that served him for his native place, he saw +only Kondráti’s white head leaning over something prostrate in the road. +Beyond them, in the limitless depth, he saw the distant meadows. From +this height Grandfather Kondráti’s little lake appeared as in the palm +of the hand: a white moving dot glinted through the verdure that +surrounded the lake in a dark strip. Ványa almost stopped, but +immediately turned his head aside, made the sign of the cross, and +walked on more rapidly. When he found himself within a few steps from +his father, he did not hold out, and turned back once more; but this +time the eyes of the young lad no longer met familiar places: everything +had disappeared behind the hill, the dark ridge of which rested against +the gloomy, grey, cheerless sky. + +Farewell, mother! Farewell home, childhood, memories,--farewell +everything! + + + + + Yákov Petróvich Polónski. (1820-1898). + + + Polónski was born in the city of Ryazán, where he graduated from the + Gymnasium. After that he studied law at the Moscow University, and in + 1844 he published his first collection of poems, under the title of + _Gamuts_. Then began for him years of restless wanderings in Russia + and abroad, in his attempt to earn his daily bread. Upon his return to + St. Petersburg, in 1859, he became an editor of a periodical, and soon + after he was made a member in the Board of Foreign Censorship. His + genius has been characterised by Turgénev as follows: “His talent + represents a special, quite individual mixture of simple-hearted + grace, a free picturesqueness of language, upon which still rests a + reflection of Púshkin’s elegance, and a certain amiable, though + frequently awkward, honesty and truthfulness of impressions. At times + he, almost unconsciously to himself, surprises one with the sharpness + of his poetic vision.” Many of his lyrics belong to the most popular + of songs in Russia, and have been set to music. Of his longer poems, + the fantastic tale _Musician Grasshopper_ enjoys the greatest + popularity. + + But little of Polónski has been translated. In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian + Lyrics_ are given _The Birds_, _Night in the Crimea_, _The Sun and the + Moon_, _The Guardian Angel_; in John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the + Russian_,--_On Skobelev_ (reprinted in the Library of the World’s Best + Literature); in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 21, by H. + Havelock, _Love scared thee not_, and _To the fond heart that + passionately loveth_; in Free Russia, vol. xii, No. 11, by Charlotte + Sidgwick, _A Vision_. + + + THE BIRDS + + The smell of fields pervades the air, + And in the peaceful sky + Are heard the lays of tuneful birds, + Resounding far and high. + + Each has its mate, with whom it spends + The hours of day and night; + In unmown fields, and growing grass, + Their homes are their delight. + + Up in the skies they pour their notes, + Fired with enraptured song; + But, still, to earth, though not for bread, + The free birds all belong. + + While thus I listen to their voice, + Vexation stirs my mind; + Their happy lot with envy fills + The hearts of all mankind. + + --From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_. + + + NIGHT IN THE CRIMEA + + Bear’st thou in mind the moon’s glimmering light, + On rocks the waves dashing with sullen roar, + The rustling trees with sleepy leaves adight, + The chirruping crickets in the fields anight, + Close by the garden, on the sea-girt shore? + + In twilight soft, beneath the garden’s shade, + We wandered; scent of laurel filled the air; + We saw a grotto in the vineyard made, + And water falling, as we careless strayed, + Which sounded sweetly in the basin there. + + Dost thou recall the freshness of the hour, + The smell of roses, and the murmuring brooks? + All Nature seemed entranced with magic power, + And at each other, in the perfumed bower + Sitting, gazed we with absorbing looks. + + The music flowing from all Nature’s smiles, + The melody working in the awakened soul, + This have I heard mid all the cozening wiles + Of life,--in direst storms,--and it beguiles + My aching heart, and fills my spirit whole. + + I lent unto the chords attentive ear, + While my mind warmèd to the beauteous sound, + Which touched my senses with triumphant cheer; + I listened till it drew me ever near, + And all my soul with joyous rapture bound. + + --From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_. + + ─────── + + Love scared thee not, for early thy heart ripened; + His was thy trust, and now thou mourn’st alone. + O hapless, hopeless prey of lies and passion, + Burst thou their net, and fear not any blame! + + The blame of men, their feigned reprobation, + Heed not, nor weep, but clear thy clouded eyes. + Not I thy judge, thy headsman, though I know it + That with a laugh malice thy doom has signed. + + Has not each one of us been passion’s plaything? + Will nought but death assuage thine enemies’ scorn? + Will e’en thy friends not cease thy soul to torture? + Feed not the fire, and malice self must die. + + And all that in thee was of pure, of holy, + Of dear, shall sacred be to those that love thee, + And rich as ever shall thy generous heart be, + And thou shalt love as erst and, loving, smile. + + --Transl. by H. Havelock, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, + No. 21. + + + FROM “MUSICIAN GRASSHOPPER” + +Not the blustering cricket chirping at the stove I sing: my hero is a +small grasshopper. He was of small size, but oblong in shape, and wore +over his back a greenish frock; he was thin-legged, lank, and broad of +brow, and he was a real genius, had a special gift: he was famed as a +musician among all the insects, and he often invited his friends to hear +his concerts. He lived under the luxuriant grass in the open field, and +drowned the air with the eternal piping of his orchestra. The frivolous +tribe of hoppers has forgotten that at that time he was the +representative of good taste and music. + +Everything which the rustic dweller nowadays hears outside the window, +as he lies upon his bed, or as he walks out on the balcony in his +morning gown,--this crackling piping, this discordant din that is over +everything,--so dry and yet so tender,--if in this gloomy concert there +is at all any glowing voluptuousness and rapture,--believe me,--those +are the bygone, eternal creations, or imitations, of my hero. + +Poor little grasshopper, your genius is forgotten! But you have passed +your life not without adventures. I know you did not in vain pass for an +idealist: you used to sit down in the silvery light of the moon, under +the canopy of night, upon a grassblade broken by the wind. Though the +bending ears are not lightly broken, yet the naughty wind crushes many +of them in the wavy meadow. You used to sit down, and with all your +might you scraped upon your fiddle, in order to glorify night. And the +empty-headed squeakers, the villainous mosquitoes, the trumpeters of the +steppe, teased you, and ladybirds fell in love with you, and envy roiled +many a little head with the same musical inclination and with the same +eagerness, but not with the same ability. And the gnat threatened to +kill, by means of science, the sounds which you produced, and the +weighty June-bug repeatedly assured all that it was pleasant to moisten +the ears at your concert, for otherwise the ears would dry up, like the +grass, from the terrible drouth. + +In your private life you have frequently been put in an awkward position +by the good little ladybirds, flies, and little bugs: you listened to +their confessions, and timidly avoided secret meetings with them. +Nothing, however, disturbed your calm: no sting appeared injurious to +your talent: you were unconquerable in the musical world. + +Little linden trees,--that was something in the nature of a park; in the +centre--a pond, and at the entrance--a bower of branches, unquestionably +a marvel of perfection; it was so spacious that--just think of it--two +hundred insects could enter it in a row. Hang me if I am telling an +untruth! The architect of it--I will not conceal it--was Nature herself; +only I do not know who paid her for the work; however, we are not +concerned here about Nature. Lest the journalists should peck us to +death, I will confess that it was hardly possible to describe the +staircase under the yellow carpet of moss, which was worn through in +spots; nor the gloomy antechamber, where the lackeys could remain from +early morning without their boots, but not without their liveries; nor +the parlour, where some mould, like stalactites, stuck to the cornices +and was wound about with verdure. An acquaintance of mine, a Russian +architect, saw in this parlour a bit of Etruscan art, and--I remember it +well--he boasted, without blushing, that the idea had struck him in that +parlour tastefully to adorn lordly rooms by covering the wall-paper with +white mould. + +However, the house of the sylphid, to be sternly critical about the +style, resembled somewhat a hole in a tree. The grasshopper was so +charmed, or his heart was so electrified, that he trembled and wasted +away as he silently waited for the sylphid, while standing at the window +and looking at the sights. The sylphid was flitting about with someone +in the garden, and having a chat with pleasant guests. These guests were +worms of various appellations, and they lay in the grass in the form of +hooks. A black-skinned little bedbug, doubtless the porter’s son, or the +nurse’s grand-child--a godchild of the gentlefolk--announced to the +sylphid that a certain lank gentleman was waiting for her in the +drawing-room. + +My hero was called in. His bow was returned with a smile, and he heard +the muttering: “Very, very happy!” The ladies examined his whole figure, +and hardly could withhold their laughter: they only looked askance at +the gentlemen. But the worms did not stir, for someone had so dreadfully +narrowed down their brains that they need only look at the decoration on +the ribbon or around the neck, in order not to pay any attention to the +rest, and remain in haughty calm. + +The artist’s calling familiarises the soul with all kinds of meetings; +but my hero was not accustomed to the manners of the charming insects of +the higher order. Living at a distance from the garden, poor, sickly, +and pale, he wore from the crown of his head to the sole of his feet the +imprint of the field upon him. There clouds alone raise their voice, and +the harvest waves its ears, and the grain waits for the scythe. + +I know, O grasshopper, how well you were received by the butterfly. You +acted proudly, as if you had spent all your life in higher society, +though from early childhood you had never travelled except in your own +carriage. But tell me, what became of you on that evening, and what +inexpressible feeling compressed your soul, and what thoughts ardently +possessed your genial brow, as you departed from the park and took your +fieldward way over the tufts? Will you say, or--shall we put down +periods? + +Departing day wept behind the mountain, and, shedding tears, cast a warm +glow upon the edge of the meadow, from behind the dark grove. Night came +in the track of day, and mingling lights were reflected and, quivering, +wandered over her cheeks. Softly came out the lights, the heralds of the +moon, lighting the tapers before the throne of God. Far and wide the sea +of the tremulous harvest grew dark; the melancholy birch embraced the +linden tree; the grove grew silent; only the oak whispered, and the +woodpecker somewhere tapped his strong beak, and somewhere a rivulet +lisped sadly,--only fateful passions were not asleep, and only the +irrepressible world of insects vociferated without cessation in the +sleepless silence. The flies hummed, the mosquitoes trumpeted; those +whom the grasshopper led in the chorus merrily scraped their fiddles, +evidently knowing their music even without candles. In front of the +orchestra, he scraped his fiddle loudest of all, in honour of his queen. +It was the marriage of the butterfly’s cousin, and the bridegroom was a +fine fellow with a long mouthpiece; of course, he was not mentally +quick, but he came from a family of select worms. According to the +bride’s words, he was intolerable only because he indiscriminately +compared the odour of old pines with the vernal fragrance of violets, +and because he respected the brier and was afraid of jackdaws. + +But what do we care for this nonsense? The ball was magnificent. The +choirs bubbled over with sounds. Dozens of Spanish flies in golden +liveries burnt incense in murky avenues. Glowworms, flaming up like +fire-pots and rockets, gleamed up and down all the paths. The guests +swarmed everywhere. The butterflies flitted in the moonshine in their +ball dresses; darning-needles flashed through the air, holding on to +darning-needles; the variegated whirl of the waltz spun around with a +rustling sound; bugs circled around the serving table; small beetles +crawled about, and the weighty persons of fashionable society, the +ladybugs, were gathered together to show their newest dresses. Two +beetles with big bellies on short legs silently approached two green +flies. An ant, laced in a waistcoat of the latest fashion, solemnly and +carelessly bent his knees, while dancing with a yellow ladybird. The +lively sylphid flapped her little wings: her eyes, her nose, her little +feet, the pattern of her dress,--everything in her involuntarily +attracted attention. + +My artistic grasshopper’s soul was aflame; he did not turn his eyes away +from her and be played like a demon. At her own request he, his heart +being unchangeable, composed this inspired dance, by whose music hop +even to-day the myriads of insects on any flower-bed of your garden, if, +O reader, the Creator has at all given you a garden, or, at least, a +garden plot. + +However, the ball of the insects did not pass without a scandal: they +say, there was an evil spider in the park who, having drawn his threads +from twig to twig, made such a devilishly clever and artistic, invisible +net, that, maybe, he had a nice little snack in secret. They say also +that a ladybird fell down and that from fright her corset gave way. The +artist himself noticed a little spider--he looked so innocent--throwing +something like a hook over the sylphid’s wing, and trying to draw her to +him, in order to find somewhere in the charming garden a place where he +could pass with her at least ten minutes in the cool shade, in silence, +in comfort, away from the bustle. But the jealous artist understood his +cunning, so he leaped up and tore the fateful threads. + +The spider swelled with anger; and a mosquito buzzed to the artist: +“See, how you have soiled yourself, as if you had been in an improper +place.” + +The grasshopper blushed, seeing the cobweb sticking to his sleeve. “What +a beast!” he grumbled, and he wiped it off. The butterfly said not a +word, and only chose another partner for the dance: the winged gentleman +was her neighbour’s silly brother. + +“Is it true,” he asked, “there is a rumour in the meadow, that you are +dead in love with the maestro? They say that the grasshopper wants to +marry you, and that he is suing for your hand?” + +“Don’t say that!” said the sylphid. “My husband--a grasshopper! What an +insult! Who has spread this gossip? Or have the flies concocted this +stupid thing?” + +“No, not the flies at all! Someone from the orchestra said that he heard +it from the maestro.” + +The fay controlled herself and did not show her anger and, flapping her +wings, cast a cold glance upon the musician, and when all, to honour his +talents, cried: “Bravo! Fora, fora!” she screwed up her face or smiled, +with downcast eyes. + + + + + Aleksyéy Feofiláktovich Písemski. (1820-1881.) + + + Písemski was the son of poor gentlefolk in the Government of Kostromá, + where his father was an army officer. At fourteen years of age he + entered the Gymnasium, and there developed a taste for the theatre and + for writing; after graduation he studied mathematics at the Moscow + University, but he devoted much of his time to acting in amateur + theatricals and to public readings, becoming famous as a reader of + Gógol. He began his literary career in 1847 and produced a large + number of novels and dramas. In all these he evolved a cynical + pessimism of the extremest kind, and unmercifully and without reserve + laid bare the moral dirt and corruption that surrounded him. His + pictures from the life of the common people, as found in _The + Petersburgian_, _The Faun_, _Bitter Fate_, and _A Thousand Souls_, are + remarkably realistic, though harrowing in their nakedness. Having + incurred the enmity of the liberal writers of the sixties, who + suspected him of retrograde tendencies, he, in 1863, wrote his novel, + _Troubled Waters_, which roused a storm of indignation in the liberal + camp. By depicting only the underside, with all its nastiness, of the + movement of the sixties, he did great harm to progress in Russia. + After that greatest of his works, his genius began to decline, and he + died, amidst much mental and moral suffering, neglected and despised + by the literary coteries. + + + THE OLD PROPRIETRESS + +The cabin which I entered was large and neat, the woodwork was planed, +the stove white, the partition made of boards, the bench and shelves +washed clean. In the front corner, under the ikons, stood a table, +behind which sat an old man with a shaven beard, with two grey tufts of +hair on his temples, with a clever expression on his face and, +evidently, blind. He was dressed in a blue cloth coat of ancient cut, +underneath which could be seen a laced shirt front and a striped +cashmere vest, no doubt an ancient fashion, too. All that old costume of +his was clean and, it seemed, preserved in spite of time. By his side +sat a neat and trim-looking old woman, in a threadbare old hood and a +chintz capote. At first glance I thought they were poor gentlefolk. Upon +my entering, the old woman immediately rose and said something to the +old man: he raised himself, and both bowed to me. + +“Please, be seated, I shall find a place,” said I. + +“Never mind, sir,” said the old woman with an affected voice, brushing +aside her scanty possessions in a small bag. + +“Be seated, please,” I repeated. + +The old man heeded my words and, feeling the bench with the cautiousness +of a blind person, seated himself, and, bending over his staff, fixed +his dim eyes upon me. The old woman did not sit down but continued +standing in a respectful attitude. I guessed they were not gentlefolk. + +“Whither are you travelling, friends?” asked I. + +“To the capital of the Government, dear sir,” answered the old man in a +sad voice. + +“The grandparents are seeing this lad off,--they are his grandparents,” +hastened to add the hostess, who was placing a samovár on the table. + +“The grandparents of this fellow?” said I. + +“Yes, sir,” answered the old man with a deep sigh, and hung his grey +head. + +“What rank are you?” + +“Burghers, your honour.” + +“Burghers by birth?” + +“By no means, sir; we were formerly manorial servants.” + +“Not in this place ought a grandson of Yákov Ivánovich be,” interrupted +the hostess: “I will say it in the presence of this old man,” she +continued, “he was in his day a great gentleman, and full of mettle. +Whenever he stopped off here, I had to bestir myself: it would not have +done to offer him stale food or a dirty samovár.” + +The old man smiled a bitter smile. + +“We did not think, madam, that a child of our own could ever act thus,” +said the old woman in her affected and somewhat lackadaisical voice. + +“What ’s to be done, mother? What ’s to be done?” replied the hostess, +also in a whining voice. + +“He was left after my daughter,” proceeded the old woman. “He was our +precious diamond; we thought he would be the consolation and joy in our +loneliness and old age. We had him educated like a child of gentlefolk: +we placed him in Moscow with what we thought to be nice merchant +people.” + +“What ’s to be done, what ’s to be done, mother!” again fell in the +hostess. + +“Well, did he dissipate?” asked I. + +“God knows, sir, whether it was the merchant people did not treat him +right, or he did not watch himself,” answered the old woman. + +The old man smiled bitterly and interrupted his wife: + +“He had not taken care of himself since his childhood, for he was born +and brought up a spoilt child. Other clerks in his business send money +home while they are still boys, but our lad kept on writing home for +some: we sent him money, until we were ruined. Meanwhile we heard that +he was getting into things that might bring him into jail. We wrote him +to come home, and he turned up only after two years: he was barefoot and +naked. We clothed him, hoping that he would mend under our eyes, but, +instead, he began the very first week to take everything from the house +to the inn.” With every new word there was heard more severity in his +voice, and tears stood in the eyes of the old woman. + +“Who were your masters?” asked I, in order to interrupt the +conversation, which evidently gave them pain. + +“Our mistress was Madam Court-intendant Pasmúrov,” reverently spoke the +old man. + +“Madam Court-intendant Pasmúrov,” repeated I, remembering that my mother +used to tell about a Madam Court-intendant Pasmúrov, as in her day a +great lady. + +“Your mistress was quite a prominent and well-known woman in these +parts?” said I. + +At this question the face of the old man became quite serene. + +“Our lady,” he began, speaking slowly and with emphasis, “was probably +the first person in Russia. She was a woman by sex, but not one man +could have stood out against her. As she said, so it was done. She was a +woman of immense brains.” + +“They say she lived well, in a lordly manner,” said I. + +“Royally, or as would become the wife of a field-marshal. She did not +visit her fellow landed proprietors the year round. There were forty +rooms in the manor, and yet they were crowded on holidays. They would +come down like the locusts with their nurses and their +children,--everybody was welcome,” concluded the old man in a boastful +tone. + +I saw that I had before me one of those old servants of former lords, +who had grown up and become old, on the one hand, in what was then +regarded as modern fashions, and on the other, under the cane. + +“You, no doubt, were a steward?” asked I. + +“I was, sir,” answered he, compressing his eyes, as if to collect his +thoughts, “I was, as we used to call it in those days, chief servant of +the manor: for one thing, I had some twenty men and the musicians under +my command, but especially the serving at the table. Our lady of blessed +memory did not like things to be done half way: every day there was to +be a parade! Another thing: her eyesight was weak, so I had to write +letters at her dictation, and I had to attend courts in her behalf; I +was well instructed and, though I did not know the law as I ought to, I +knew how to get along with the officials. Up to the fiftieth year of my +life, sir, I never wore anything but silk stockings and full dress of +fine English cloth. God grant her the kingdom of heaven,--I enjoyed the +favour of my lady.” + +“Nowadays there are no such masters,” said I. + +“By no means, sir, and there cannot be,--I have not the honour of +knowing who you may be, for, being blind, I cannot see. There are no +such masters now,” answered the old man, as if restraining himself from +being open to me. + +“I am a landed proprietor in this neighbourhood, and I should like to +ask you about those masters of olden times.” + +The old man sighed. + +“I am seeing my ninety-seventh year in this world, sir, and I see a +great change in everything: those old masters, I must say so, are in +comparison with those of to-day like eagles before sparrows,” spoke he, +significantly shaking his head. + +“How so?” asked I. + +The old man moved his hands in thoughts. + +“The first thing,” he began, “they have somehow squandered their +properties, and they have not the same spirit. Gentlemen nowadays behave +differently, but then all was simple; there was plenty of everything: +grain, cattle, their own winepress,--they prepared liqueurs by the +barrel, and such meads and sweet drinks! They made merry and enjoyed +themselves; for example, they would bring together a lot of male and +female jesters on some holiday, and they would urge them on against each +other: and they fought and amused the gentlefolk; but nowadays they keep +little company with each other, and find more pleasure in books.” + +Here the old man stopped, but he soon began anew with animation: + +“There are not many gentlemen who now stay on their estates, unless they +be old or sick, but all serve in some capacity; there are no longer +great personages. Let us take, for instance, our lady, the +Court-intendant,” he continued, almost with emotion, “how she was +honoured in the Government! A new lieutenant, or, as you call him now, a +new governor, is appointed: he is still in St. Petersburg, but she is +already writing to her friends, the ministers and senators, that, +inasmuch as a new governor is coming to us, ‘you tell him to know me, +and I will know him.’ And the moment she receives the news that he has +arrived, she immediately sends for me. I make my appearance, and bow. +‘Listen,’ says she, ‘Yákov Ivánov!’--she always spoke a little through +her nose: ‘Listen! A new governor has arrived, so take the best +tróyka,[16] drive to Kostromá, go to such and such a jeweller and +purchase a silver basin; search out wherever you please the very best of +sterlets, or, still better, a live sturgeon; go in my name to the +governor, have yourself announced, and say this and that about your +mistress, the Court-intendant, and that, on account of ill-health, she +cannot come herself, so she congratulates him by proxy upon his arrival +and, as a resident, sends him, as a greeting and instead of the bread +and salt, fish in the basin.’ He receives it, I am given a fine treat, +and he sends a letter to our mistress.” + +“So the amity began,” remarked I, in imitation of the old man’s voice. + +“That ’s it, amity, your word is correct!” he fell in: “because, when +now his Excellency, the Chief of the Government, deigned to travel on +inspections, he would visit us, and those were magnificent assemblies. +From what I have seen and heard, governors nowadays travel with great +pomp, and demand great receptions and respect, and there is a great +fear, at least upon the small officials, but from what I know of the +past, the governors of to-day are nothing in comparison with them.” + +“How was it then?” asked I. + +“Formerly, sir, the governor travelled over the Government like a king +of the earth: what a lot of officials surrounded his person, and what a +lot of gentlefolk joined him everywhere on his journey! There was +one,--I dare not mention his name,--who was in the habit of travelling +over the Government with his wife, and she,--pardon me for saying +so,--on account of her feminine weakness, had a great love for dogs. +There was a special carriage for these dogs; and a special officer had +charge of them. He by accident lost one little dog; her Excellency the +governor’s wife, in spite of her exalted position, boxed his ears in +sight of all people, and he was discharged,--that ’s the kind of times +that were then!” + +“Those were good, simple times,” remarked I. + +“It was simple, sir,” concluded Yákov Ivánov; then, having thought a +moment, he continued: “It would happen, sir, that all that company +stayed with us for three or four days, or a whole week, and if the +governor chanced to praise some thing in our house, say a clock, a +picture, a silver platter, I had a standing order to take that thing in +the evening to his sleeping-room and to report that my lady was very +happy that such and such a thing had pleased him, and that she begged +him to accept it.” + +“Did the old lady do it all from mere bravado?” asked I. + +“Bravado there was,” answered Yákov Ivánov. “Of course, she had great +vanity, but more than that, she drew great advantages from it. For +instance, an estate was for sale by order of the chancery,--and my lady, +relying on her amicable relations to the chiefs of the Government, had +only to cast her eyes upon it, and it was ours. If I, the +plenipotentiary of Mrs. Pasmúrov, appeared at the sales in the chancery, +not a purchaser turned up: they knew full well that the Chief of the +Government did not desire it. I thanked where thanks were needed, and in +a befitting manner, and it was all right whatever was paid for the +estate. The estate of Byelogrívy, sir, came in those days into our hands +for one hundred and twenty roubles, and when I went down to take +possession of it, I collected two hundred roubles of delinquent dues +from the peasants, so you may figure out what the estate cost us.” + +Saying this, the peasant evidently did not consider that he had said too +much, and when I cried out almost involuntarily: + +“Old man! but that is a sin, that is stealing,” he was taken back, and +answered in an humbled voice and with a sigh: + +“A sin, sir; in my wretchedness and blindness I see and feel it all; in +the commandments of the Lord it is said: thou shalt not covet thy +neighbour’s house, nor his village, nor his manservant,--but our old +lady had a desire for it all, though it must be said that all people are +not without weaknesses.” He strongly accentuated the last word. + +“I should say, he and his mistress knew their advantage!” suddenly fell +in Gráchikha, who was busy at the stove: “you are telling of the estate, +but you had better tell how you delivered a gentleman into the army as a +recruit from your estate,” continued she, stepping out behind the +partition and standing near the ovenbed, while she leaned with one arm +on a beam and with the other against her fat side. + +Yákov Ivánov frowned a little. + +“How a gentleman?” asked I. + +“They did,” answered Gráchikha. “Their mistress, the General’s wife, did +not like to get her peasants under the red hat, because she needed them +all; so there happened to turn up a poor gentleman: he was not a nice +fellow to behold; he must have been maimed when he was young,--his head +was so large and flat, and there was little sense in it, for he knew +neither count, nor days, nor anything else, and yet he knew enough to +live according to his estate. So these our falcons came to him and began +to persuade him: ‘You,’ they said, ‘are a gentleman, and yet you live as +a labourer among the peasants. You had better serve in the army; but as +you know neither how to read, nor write, you will not be ranked as a +gentleman, so you had better serve first for our estate, and later, when +you will declare yourself a gentleman, you will be properly advanced.’ +Having no kin with whom to take counsel, he foolishly drank their wine +and ate their cates, and unthinkingly consented. The young gentleman was +brought to the recruiting office, and was declared a common peasant. +They called out: ‘Shave him!’ dressed him in soldier’s clothes, and +‘March!’ with the rest of the recruits. Three or four years later he +announced to his superior: ‘I,’ says he, ‘am a gentleman!’ ‘What kind of +a gentleman are you?’ says he, and he chaffed him a little, but he kept +on repeating: ‘I am a gentleman, that ’s all,’ and he went to the higher +authorities, and told them the same. They looked into the documents, and +saw that he was a peasant, so they reported that way. So our gentleman +had to give it up, and he served thirty-five years for their estate. +They knew how to fix documents! It may be that for their trickery they +are now paying with their own blood,” said Gráchikha half-loud, pointing +with her eyes to Yákov Ivánovich, who, in his turn, had listened to her +recital with bent head, and without saying a word. + +I tried to change the subject, so I asked the old man: + +“In whose hands is the estate of your mistress now? I saw it: it is +dilapidated and neglected, and the house is in ruins.” + +“Our estate is now held in trust,” answered he, evidently satisfied with +the change. “Well, the guardians are strangers, and they either do not +care to look after things, or they steal into their own pockets. Not +only do they neglect the estate, but they do not keep the peasants in +order. Drunkards and wasters are living without fear, and those who are +better off now are frequently squeezed: ‘We will put your son,’ they +say, ‘into the army, or we will take him to our own estate.’” + +“And now, peasant, pay your ransom. In former days you used to make a +great deal of money,” fell in Gráchikha. + +Yákov Ivánov paid no attention to her words, and continued: + +“And then the estate has no protection against the officials. In former +days, when my mistress was alive, our manorial servants were, to tell +the truth, a riotous lot. Not a church holiday passed without their +riots, when they would smash whole fairs, but the authorities, +considering who they were and to what lady they belonged, begged them +with words to stop; but nowadays, our rural captain of police, an +insignificant man, commands and punishes in our villages, just out of +interest to that accursed one himself, in whose favour he is so biassed +that he regards that day lost in which he has not had some advantage +from his office. I once met him in town, and says I to him: ‘Why and for +what cause do you, sir, so abuse the estate of my mistress?’ ‘Ah,’ says +he, ‘worthy old man, where are we, the rural police, to have our sway, +if not in the estates that are in trust? These are severe times, we are +not permitted to take bribes, but what we can pocket in any other way is +all right!’ and he laughed, sir!” + + [16] Three-horse carriage. + + + + + Afanási Afanásevich Shenshín (Fet). (1820-1892.) + + + Shenshín is one of the most melodious of the minor poets. He was born + in the Government of Orél, and received his early education at home. + Upon entering the Moscow University he was confronted with certain + difficulties which compelled him to assume the name of Fet, after his + mother by her first marriage, which he retained through life as his + _nom de plume_. He then served in the army up to 1856, after which he + retired to his Orél estate. He began writing in 1840, and at first + distinguished himself as a translator from Goethe and Horace. His + original poems, of which there is a large number, are all short and + tunable lyrical outbursts, with rarely a title to know them by. + + Two short poems, _A Russian Scene_ and _Tryst_, are given in John + Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_, reprinted in the Library of the + World’s Best Literature; and the four nameless ones, given below, by + I. H. Harrison in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 19. + + + When deeply musing in the silence of the night, + I see her, gentle Queen, above me shining clearly; + When all the constellations pour out their rays of light, + And Argo seems to dream, while twinkling, then I dearly + Long for the coming hour, when I again shall see + Thee near me, with a pain dull, dumb, and ever growing, + As, frightened by each sound, I trembling wait for thee. + Impatience gnaws my breast. Thou comest, slowly, showing + By stealthy pace thy love, bashful, with timid glance + Around thee, and I rush to see those clear eyes tell + Their secret, and I read love’s answer in their dance, + And hear thee softly whisper, smiling, “I love thee well!” + I strive in vain to utter the words which fill my heart; + All speech, by passion broken, ends but in sound unmeaning, + And as I panting kiss thy hair, and feel a part + Of thy breath mine becoming, I listen, o’er thee leaning, + For what thou ’lt say, but no, I listen long in vain,-- + Without a word thy kisses freely respond to mine-- + O sweet one, may the happiness I feel be always thine, + And mine lie in sure hope that we two meet again! + + ─────── + + Every feeling at night to me becomes clearer and deeper, + Shapes that are born of our fears terrible grow in the dark-- + Sounds I at once understand, e’en when o’er my book I sit musing, + Motionless, lost in my thoughts, stung to the point of belief + In impossible things, while that which seems strangest seems easy-- + In through the windows the moon shines, and the lamp burns on + Dimly beside the couch, and far in the distance a tolling + Breaks through the silence at times, filling the room with its swell; + Gladly I yield to the charm which ever hath set my heart beating, + Moistening mine eyes with night’s dew, tears of its infinite joy-- + Always I hear night’s song, but often the melody changes: + Now ’t is the clang of brass, then ’t is of silver the ring. + Strange ’t is that ears hear well when the mind is still working or + vacant; + Thought presses fast upon thought,--wave after wave in the sea,-- + Night with a mystical strength embraces, and into one fuses, + Feelings and objects around, all that we see, think, and hear; + Thus on the two-headed poppies midnight sheddeth its moisture, + Giving them power of sleep--none can that mystery tell! + + ─────── + + Stay here awhile,--’t is good!--Amid the shadows looming + Widely, with jagged edge, by moonlight from the pines-- + Silence is over all! The sounds on hilltops booming + Have here no leave to bring of heart’s unrest the signs. + + I will not go there where the stones, my faith deceiving, + Fall from beneath my heel, as the cliff’s edge I tread, + Sheer to the beach below; where the great waves are leaving, + And rushing on, the shore--the play of waters dread. + + Thou, Silence, art alone before me, ’neath the quiet + Of the deep stars, thou empress of feeling and of thought-- + But _there_ the rough wave comes, and brings its splashing riot-- + I will not go there where all is with tumult fraught. + + ─────── + + Night, thou art so blest with odours sweet and strong, + Thou rousest idlest fancies in the mind! + All listen unto thee, and I cannot but long + To speak of what I in thy stillness find. + + Thine azure vault spreads wide before my wondering eyes, + And all thy golden lights are burning bright; + It is as if thy stars were one great sun that tries + To cast its rays upon my garden’s site. + + Even the moon, no longer swimming o’er tuft-crowned trees + With placid gaze, seems like thyself to burn, + Though all the while the brook glistens in plashing ease + Beneath the boughs which hide its every turn. + + The feeblest noise resounds throughout thee like a blow; + Air whispers, like the strings of a guitar, + So tenderly to thee that all who hear him know + The call to love from lands both near and far. + + All Nature seems aroused, in concert to cry out + In speech that will not let our fancies die; + We push the casement open to look on night without, + And trembling try to read the silvery sky. + + --Transl. by I. H. Harrison, in The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society, No. 19. + + + TRYST + + A whisper, a gentle sigh, + Trills of the nightingale; + The silver flash of the brook, + Asleep in the sleepy vale. + The shadows and shine of night-- + Shadows in endless race; + The sweet of a magical change + Over a sweet young face. + The blush of a rose in a mist, + An amber gleam on the lawn; + A rush of kisses and tears-- + And oh, “the Dawn! the Dawn!” + + --From John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_. + + + + + Fédor Mikháylovich Dostoévski. (1821-1881.) + + + Dostoévski was the second of seven children of a poor army surgeon. He + was brought up at home, which consisted of but two living rooms, by + his father. At thirteen years of age he was sent to a boarding school, + and later to the School of Engineering in St. Petersburg from which he + graduated in 1843. He received a good appointment, but soon resigned + from it in order to devote himself to literature. His first novel, + _Poor People_, appeared in 1846, and was proclaimed as the work of a + “new Gógol.” In 1849 he was arrested for a supposed participation in a + conspiracy and was sentenced for four years to Siberian prisons, after + which he was to serve as a soldier in a Siberian regiment. His nerves, + which had never been strong, were completely shattered in his + imprisonment, and he at times had fits of epilepsy. He was permitted + to return to European Russia in 1859. Two years later he published + with his brother a periodical, _The Time_, in which appeared + simultaneously two of his great novels, _The Humiliated and the + Offended_, and _The Memoirs from the Dead House_. His best novel, + _Crime and Punishment_, came out a few years later. Only towards the + end of his life did his works and his literary labours furnish him + with a competency. Dostoévski’s writings lack the artistic perfection + of his great contemporaries, and almost entirely neglect the + description of Nature; but they are unsurpassed for the psychological + analysis of human character, especially of the diseased mind. It has + been pointed out by a medical authority that in his analysis of + pathological cases he has anticipated later scientific discoveries. + + The following works have been translated into English: _Buried Alive; + or, Ten Years of Penal Servitude in Siberia_, translated by Marie von + Philo, London and New York, 1881; _Prison Life in Siberia_, translated + by H. S. Edwards, London, 1887; _Crime and Punishment_, London, 1885, + New York, 1886 and 1889 (4th ed. London, 1893); _Injury and Insult_, + translated by F. Whishaw, London, 1886; _Uncle’s Dream_, and _The + Permanent Husband_, London, 1888-9; _Friend of the Family_, and _The + Gambler_, London, 1887-9; _Poor Folk_ (Franklin Square Library, No. + 594), New York, 1887, translated by L. Milman, Boston, and London, + 1894; _The Idiot_, London, 1887-8; extracts from _Poor People_, and + _Crime and Punishment_, translated by I. Hapgood, in the Library of + the World’s Best Literature. + + + FROM “CRIME AND PUNISHMENT” + + + RASKÓLNIKOV’S CONFESSION + +Raskólnikov again covered his face with his hands and dropped his head. +He suddenly grew pale, rose from his chair, looked at Sónya, and, +without uttering a word or being conscious of the act, seated himself on +her bed. + +To his sensations, that moment bore a dreadful resemblance to the one +when he was standing back of the old woman and, having loosened the axe +from the noose, was feeling that not another minute was to be lost. + +“What is the matter with you?” asked Sónya, terrified. + +He could not speak a word. It was not at all that way that he had +intended to announce it to her, and he did not himself understand what +was going on within him. She softly went up to him, sat down on the bed +near him, and waited, without taking her eyes away from him. Her heart +alternately beat strongly or stopped beating. It became unbearable. He +turned his deathly pale face to her; his lips twitched impotently in a +vain effort to say something. Terror passed through Sónya’s heart. + +“What is the matter with you?” she repeated, moving a little away from +him. + +“Nothing, Sónya. Don’t get frightened. Nonsense! Really, when you come +to think of it, it is nonsense,” he muttered like a delirious person who +is not conscious of himself. “But why have I chosen you of all persons +to torment?” he added suddenly, looking at her. “Really, why? I am +continually asking myself this question, Sónya.” + +It may be he had asked himself that question fifteen minutes before, but +just then he had lost control of himself and hardly knew what he was +about, feeling only an uninterrupted chill over his whole body. + +“Oh, how you suffer!” she spoke with a painful expression, looking +fixedly at him. + +“It ’s all bosh!---- Say, Sónya” (he, for some reason, suddenly for a +second or two smiled a pale and impotent smile), “do you remember what I +had intended to tell you yesterday?” + +Sónya was waiting restlessly. + +“I told you, as I left you, that it was probably the last time I was +bidding you good-bye, but that if I came back to-day, I would tell +you--who killed Lizavéta.” + +A tremor suddenly passed over her whole body. + +“So, you see, I have come to tell you.” + +“So you really did yesterday----” she whimpered with difficulty. “But +how do you know?” she immediately asked, as if coming to. + +Sónya began to breathe with difficulty. Her face grew paler and paler. + +“I do know.” + +She remained silent for a minute. + +“Did they find him?” she asked him timidly. + +“No, they did n’t.” + +“How, then, do you know about it?” she again asked him barely audibly, +after a minute’s silence. + +He turned around to her and fixed his gaze at her. “Guess!” he muttered +with the same convulsive and impotent smile as before. + +Her whole body was shivering as if with cramps. “You--why do you--do you +frighten me?” she spoke and smiled like a child. + +“It must be, then, I am a great friend of his, since I know,” proceeded +Raskólnikov, continuing uninterruptedly to look at her face, as though +it was beyond him to take his eyes away from her. “He did not mean +to--kill--that Lizavéta-- He--killed her by accident-- He wanted to kill +the old woman--when she was alone--and he came-- And then Lizavéta +entered-- He--then killed her too.” + +Another terrible minute passed. They looked at each other. + +“So you can’t guess?” he suddenly asked her, with a sensation as if he +were falling down a belltower. + +“N--no!” Sónya lisped almost inaudibly. + +“Take a good look.” + +When he said that, the former, familiar sensation suddenly iced his +soul. He glanced at her, and immediately it appeared to him, he +recognised Lizavéta in her face. He vividly remembered the expression of +Lizavéta’s face as he approached her with the axe and she kept receding +to the wall, with outstretched hand, and perfectly childish expression +of fear in her face, precisely as little children do who, when they +suddenly become frightened at something, immovably and restlessly look +at the object of their fear, step back and begin to cry, while +stretching out their little hands. Almost the same took place with +Sónya. She looked at him for a while, just as powerless, with just the +same expression of terror; then, suddenly, she stretched out her left +hand, barely touched his breast with her fingers, and began to rise +slowly from the bed, all the time removing farther away from him and +ever more immovably fixing her eyes upon him. + +Her terror was soon communicated to him, and he began to look at her, +almost with the same childish smile. + +“Have you guessed?” he whispered at last. + +“Lord!” A terrible moan issued from her breast. She fell powerless on +the bed, with her face on the pillows. But in a moment she was again on +her feet, rapidly walked up to him, seized his two hands, and, pressing +them hard with her thin fingers, as in a vise, again became motionless +as if glued to the place, and stared at him. With this last, despairing +glance she wanted to read some last hope in his face. But there was no +hope; there was no suspicion left; it was all so! Even later, when she +recalled that moment, she felt inexpressibly strange: how was it that +she then saw at once that there was no doubt whatsoever left? For +certainly she could not say that she had had a presentiment of that +kind. But just then, when he had barely told her about it, it suddenly +flashed upon her that she really had had some such presentiment. + +“Stop, Sónya, stop! Do not torment me!” he begged her pitifully. He had +had the intention of telling her about it in an entirely different +manner, but it had turned out just that way. + +She jumped up, as if beside herself, and, wringing her hands, stepped to +the centre of the room; but she immediately returned and seated herself +by his side, touching his shoulder with her own. Then she suddenly +quivered, as if pierced by an arrow, cried out aloud, and, without +knowing herself why, kneeled down before him. + +“Oh, what have you done with yourself?” she cried in despair and, rising +to her feet, embraced his neck and pressed it with all her might. + +Raskólnikov reeled back and looked at her with a sad smile. + +“You are a strange girl, Sónya! You embrace and kiss me, though I told +you all about it. You are beside yourself.” + +“No, there is not a more unfortunate man in the whole world than you +are!” she called out, as if in a stupor, without hearing his remark, and +suddenly bursting into tears, as if in hysterics. + +A long unfamiliar feeling flooded his soul and at once softened it. He +did not struggle against it: two tears rolled out of his eyes and hung +upon his lashes. + +“So you will not leave me, Sónya?” he spoke, looking almost hopefully at +her. + +“No, no! Never and nowhere!” Sónya cried out. “I will go with you, +anywhere you want me to! O Lord! O miserable girl that I am. Oh, why, +why did I not know you before? Why did you not come to see me before? O +Lord!” + +“You see, I have come now!” + +“Now! Oh, what can now be done? Both of us, both of us!” she cried out +as if oblivious and again embraced him. “I ’ll go to Siberia with you!” + +Something touched him to the quick, and his former hateful and almost +supercilious smile stood upon his lips. + +“Sónya, as far as that is concerned, I may not yet be ready to go to +Siberia,” he said. + +Sónya cast a swift glance at him. + +After her first impassioned and vexatious sympathy with the unfortunate +man, the terrible idea of the murder struck her again forcibly. She +heard the murderer in his changed tone of voice. She looked in +wonderment at him. She knew nothing as yet, neither why, nor how, nor +for what purpose. Now all these questions burst at once upon her +consciousness. And again she could not believe: “He, he a murderer! But +is that possible?” + +“But what is that? Where am I?” she exclaimed in great perplexity as if +still in a trance. “But how could you, you, take that step? How was it +possible?” + +“Why, to rob. Stop, Sónya!” he answered, as if exhausted and even as if +annoyed. + +Sónya stood for a moment, as if struck dumb, then she suddenly cried +out: + +“You had been hungry! You--to help your mother? Yes?” + +“No, Sónya, no,” he muttered and turned away his drooping head, “I was +not so hungry, I really wanted to help my mother, but--that is not quite +correct either--do not torment me, Sónya!” + +Sónya wrung her hands. + +“But can all this be really true? Lord, is it true? Who would believe +it?---- How can it be, you give away your last, and then you kill, in +order to rob! Ah!” she suddenly cried out. “The money, the money that +you had given Katerína Ivánovna--that money--Lord, can it be that money, +too?” + +“No, Sónya,” he speedily interrupted her, “not that money, calm +yourself! That money mother sent me by a merchant, and I received it +when I was sick, and that very day I gave it away. No, that was my +money, my own money.” + +Sónya listened to him perplexed and was invoking all her reasoning power +in order to form a concept. + +“That money--I really do not even know whether there was any money +there,” he added softly and as if lost in meditation. “I did take off a +purse, a full chamois purse, from her neck, but I did not open it to +look into it; I suppose I did not have the time for it---- There were +some other things, studs, chains, and I know not what,--I buried all +that and the purse next morning under a rock in somebody’s yard, in the +V. Prospect---- It ’s all there yet----” + +Sónya was straining herself to hear. + +“Then why did you do it? You said yourself, you did it to rob, and then +you did not take anything?” she quickly asked him, trying to catch at a +straw. + +“I do not know--I have not yet made up my mind whether to take that +money, or not,” he spoke, as if again lost in meditation, but suddenly +regaining consciousness, his face was lit up by a swift, soft smile. +“Oh, what a lot of bosh I have been just saying, eh?” + +A thought flashed through Sónya’s mind: “Maybe he is insane!” but she +immediately arrested her thought: “No, there is something else there.” +She did not understand a thing, not a thing! + +“Do you know, Sónya,” he suddenly said with a kind of inspiration, “do +you know what I will tell you? If I had murdered them because I was +hungry,” he continued, accentuating every word, and enigmatically, +though sincerely, looking at her, “I would now be happy! You had better +know that! What do you care, what do you care,” he cried out after a +moment in a voice akin to despair, “what do you care for my confession, +if I were to make it, that I have done wrong? What good could such a +foolish victory of yours over me do you? O Sónya, did I now come to you +for that?” + +Sónya again wanted to say something, but she kept silent. + +“That ’s why I wanted you last night to be with me, because you are the +only one left to me.” + +“Where did you want me to go to?” Sónya asked timidly. + +“Not to steal, nor murder, don’t worry--not for that,” he smiled +sarcastically. “I only now begin to understand what I called you for +last night! Yesterday, I did not understand what I called you for. I +called you for the same purpose for which I have come to see you now: +not to leave me. You will not leave me, Sónya?” + +She pressed his hand. + +“Now, why did I tell her, why did I confess to her,” he cried out a +minute later in despair, looking in endless torment at her. “You are +waiting for an explanation from me, Sónya; you are sitting there and +waiting, I see it; but what am I to tell you? You won’t understand a +word of it; you will only suffer torment--for me! There, there you are +weeping and again embracing me. Why are you embracing me? Is it because +I did not bear it all myself, but came to put it on other shoulders, +that by your suffering I may feel relieved? And you can love such a +villain?” + +“Are n’t you suffering yourself?” Sónya exclaimed. + +The same feeling again flooded his soul, and again for a moment softened +it. + +“Sónya, my heart is bad. Take a note of that, for you will be able to +explain much by it. I came because I am bad. There are some who would +not have come. But I am a coward, a villain! Well, let it be! But that +is not it!----I ought to talk now, and I do not know how to begin----” + +He stopped and fell to musing. + +“Bah, we don’t belong together!” he again exclaimed. “We are not a match +for each other. Why, why did I come? I shall never forgive myself!” + +“No, no! It is good that you have come!” exclaimed Sónya, “it is better +that I should know, much better!” + +He looked in pain at her. + +“After all, why not?” he said, as if pondering over it. “It certainly +happened that way! Listen: I wanted to be a Napoleon, that ’s why I +murdered---- Well, do you understand now?” + +“N--no!” Sónya muttered naïvely and timidly, “but just go on! I ’ll +understand you, I ’ll make it out!” she begged him. + +“You will understand? Very well, we shall see!” + +He grew silent and pondered for a long while. + +“It is like this: I once asked myself what would have happened if +Napoleon had been in my place, and had had nothing with which to begin +his career, neither Toulon, nor Egypt, nor crossing Mont-Blanc; if +instead of all these beautiful and monumental things there would be +nothing but a funny old woman, a registrar’s widow, whom, in addition, +it would be necessary to kill in order to get the money out of her trunk +(for the sake of a career, you understand!),--well, would he have made +up his mind to do so, if there had been no other way? Would he have had +scruples because it is far from being monumental, and--and because it is +sinful? Well, I tell you, this ‘question’ tormented me for a dreadfully +long time, so that I felt very much ashamed when at last I guessed (it +came all of a sudden to me), that he not only would not have had any +scruples, but that it would not even have occurred to him that it was +not monumental--and that he would have been at a loss to see what he was +to have any scruples about? And if no other road had been open to him, +he would have choked her to death, without giving her a chance to cry +out, and he would not even have brooded over it. Well, I--stopped +brooding over it--killed her--following the example of my authority---- +It was precisely that way! You think it is funny? Yes, Sónya, the +funniest thing about all this is that it really happened that way----” + +Sónya did not think it at all funny. + +“You had better tell me straight, without examples,” she begged him more +timidly and in a hardly audible voice. + +He turned towards her, sadly looked at her, and took her hands. + +“You are again right, Sónya. That is indeed nonsense, nothing but empty +prattle! You see: you know that my mother hardly has a thing. My sister +has somehow managed to get an education, and she is destined to wear her +life away as a governess. All their hopes were centred in me. I studied, +but was unable to support myself in the university, and was compelled to +leave it for a time. Even as it was, I still might have hoped, if +circumstances became favourable, in ten or twelve years to be a teacher +or official, with a thousand roubles yearly salary.” He spoke as if he +had learned it by heart. “In the meanwhile my mother would dry up from +cares and grief, and I should not after all succeed in making her lot +easier, while my sister--well, something worse could happen to her!---- +What pleasure is there in passing all your life by things and avoiding +them, in forgetting your mother, or, say, respectfully bearing the +insult offered to your sister? What for? To bury them, to get a family +of your own, wife and children, and then to leave these too without a +penny? Well--well, so I decided to get hold of the old woman’s money, to +use it for the first few years, by providing for myself in the +university, without putting my mother to any trouble, and to use it also +for the first steps after my university career. I had decided to do it +all in a broad, radical manner, so as to provide abundantly for my new +career, and to start on a new and independent road---- Of course, it is +wrong for me to have killed that old woman--well, enough of it!” + +He dragged out the story in complete exhaustion, and his head fell down +on his breast. + +“Oh, it is not that, not that,” Sónya exclaimed dejectedly, “how could +one--no, not that way, not that way!” + +“You see yourself that it is not so! Still I have told you the whole +truth!” + +“What truth is that! O Lord!” + +“I have only killed a louse, Sónya, a useless, nasty, harmful louse.” + +“You call a person a louse!” + +“I know myself that she is not a louse,” he answered, looking at her in +a strange manner. “However, Sónya, I am lying,--I have been lying for a +long time---- No, it is not that; you are right. No, there are +altogether different reasons!---- I have not talked to anybody for a +long time, Sónya---- My head hurts me dreadfully.” + +His eyes burnt with a feverish fire. He was almost growing delirious; a +restless smile hovered on his lips. A terrible impotence could be seen +through the excited condition of his soul. Sónya understood how he was +suffering. Her own head began to whirl. And he spoke so strangely, and +yet as if one might understand, but--“How is it possible? How is it +possible, O Lord?” and she wrung her hands in despair. + +“No, Sónya, it is not that!” he began again, raising his head, as if a +sudden new turn in his thoughts had struck him and roused him. “It is +not that! But rather, suppose (yes, that is better!), suppose that I am +selfish, envious, malicious, villainous, revengeful, well--if you wish +it, inclined to insanity. (Let us grant all, while we are about it! We +spoke before of insanity, it seems!) I told you long ago that I could +not keep myself at the university. But do you know, I may have been able +to after all! Mother would have sent the amount for the fees, and very +likely I could have earned enough for shoes, clothes, and bread! There +was some tutoring to do, and they offered fifty kopeks an hour. Take +Razumíkhin, he is working! But I just got mad, and did n’t want to. That +’s it, mad,--that is a good word! I then kept to my corner like a +spider. You have been in my den, you have seen it---- Do you know, +Sónya, low ceilings and small rooms oppress soul and mind! Oh, how I did +hate that den! And yet, I did not wish to leave it! I did not leave it +for days at a time, and I did not want to work, or even eat, but lay +there all the time. If Nastásya brought me anything, I would eat it; if +not,--a day might pass without eating. I was so mad, I did not ask on +purpose. During the evenings I had no candles, but lay in darkness. I +did not try to earn enough for candles. I ought to have studied, but I +had sold my books; on my notes and copybooks that are lying on the table +there is even now an inch of dust. I preferred to lie and think. And I +did nothing but think---- I had such strange visions, such peculiar +dreams, just horrible! It was then that I began to imagine that--no, +that is n’t correct! I am again telling wrong! You see, I kept on asking +myself: why am I so stupid and do not try to be wiser, when others are +stupid and I am positive that they are stupid? Then I discovered, Sónya, +that it would take a long time to wait for others to get wiser---- Then +I found out that it would never happen, that people would not change, +that nobody could change them, and that it was not worth the while +anyway! Yes, that ’s the way! That ’s their law, their law, Sónya! That +’s so!---- I know even now, Sónya, that he who is strong and mighty in +soul and mind is their master! He who dares is right in their eyes. He +who looks with contempt at most things is their lawgiver, and he who +dares most of all is most right! So it has always been, and so it will +always be! Only a blind man will refuse to see that!” + +Saying this, Raskólnikov looked at Sónya, but he was no longer concerned +about her understanding him. He was in a kind of sombre rapture. He had +really not exchanged any words with anyone for a long time. Sónya +understood that that gloomy catechism was his faith and law. + +“I then came to the conclusion, Sónya,” he proceeded in an ecstatic +mood, “that power is given only to him who dares to bend in order to +take it up. That is the only thing,--one must dare! Then I worked out a +thought, for the first time in my life, which no one had ever worked out +before! Nobody! It all of a sudden became clear to me as the sun that it +was very strange that, passing by all that nonsense, no one had ever +dared or would dare to take the whole business by the tail and send it +flying to the devil! I--I wanted to dare, and I killed--I only wanted to +dare. Sónya, there is the whole reason!” + +“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Sónya, and wrung her hands. “You have departed +from God, and God has struck you down, and has given you over to the +devil!” + +“By the way, Sónya, when I was lying in the dark and all kinds of +thoughts came to me, was it the devil that was tempting me, eh?” + +“Hush! Don’t laugh, blasphemer! You do not understand anything, not a +thing! O Lord! He will not understand anything!” + +“Hush, Sónya, I am not at all laughing, I know myself that the devil was +dragging me all the time. Hush, Sónya, hush!” he repeated gloomily and +with emphasis. “I know all. I thought it all over and whispered it to +myself as I was lying there in the dark--I have discussed it all with +myself, down to the finest point, and I know all, I know all! And I got +then so tired of all that prattle! I wanted to forget and begin anew, +Sónya, and stop all that nonsense! Do you really think I went headlong, +like a fool? I went like a shrewd fellow, and it is this that has been +my undoing! Or do you really think that I did not know, for example, +that the very fact that I kept on asking myself and discussing with +myself whether I had a right to have power, was in itself a proof that I +had no such right? Or, that when I put the question to myself: ‘Is man a +louse?’ man is no longer a louse, as far as I am concerned, but that he +is only a louse for him who has no doubts about it, and proceeds without +any questions? The very fact that I was vexed for several days by the +question, whether Napoleon would have gone or not, showed that I clearly +felt that I was no Napoleon---- I suffered all the torment of that +nonsense, Sónya, and I wanted to get rid of it. I wanted to kill without +casuistry, Sónya, to kill for my own sake, only for me! I did not want +to lie in this matter, not even to myself! I did not kill in order to +help mother,--that ’s bosh! I did not kill in order to get the means and +the power with which to do good to humankind. Bosh! I simply killed, +killed for my own sake, only for me. No doubt, it was all the same to me +at that moment whether I was ever to become anybody’s benefactor, or +whether I was going, like a spider, to catch them all in my cobweb in +order to suck their vital sap!---- Nor was money the main thing that I +wanted when I killed her, Sónya; not so much the money as something +else---- Now I know it all---- Understand me: if I were to go on that +road again, I should never repeat that murder. I had to find out +something else,--something else drew me on. What I had to find out +then,--and find out at once,--was whether I was a louse or a man! +Whether I should be able to transgress or not! Whether I should be able +to bend and take up or not! Whether I am a trembling creature, or +whether I have the right----” + +“To kill? Whether you have the right to kill?” Sónya wrung her hands. + +“Ah, Sónya!” he exclaimed excitedly; he wanted to retort something, but +contemptuously kept silent. “Do not interrupt me, Sónya! I wanted to +prove but one thing to you: that the devil was then drawing me on, and +that only later he explained to me that I had no right to go there, +because I am just the same kind of a louse as anybody else. He has had +his laugh at me, and so I have come to you now! Here is a guest for you! +If I were not a louse, would I have come to you? Listen! When I was then +going to the old woman, I only went to try--I am telling you!” + +“And you killed her! You killed her!” + +“How killed her? Is that the way to kill? Do people go to kill the way I +went? I ’ll tell you sometime how I went then!---- Did I kill the old +woman? I killed myself, and not the old woman! I then crushed myself for +eternity!---- The devil killed the old woman, and not I---- Enough, +Sónya, enough! Leave me alone,” he suddenly cried out in convulsive +despair, “leave me alone!” + +He bent over his knees and pressed his head with his hands, as if in a +vise. + +“Oh, what torment!” Sónya moaned pitifully. + +“Well, what is to be done now, speak!” he asked, suddenly raising his +head and looking at her with a face that was horribly distorted by +despair. + +“What is to be done!” she exclaimed, jumping up from her seat, and her +eyes that had been full of tears suddenly began to sparkle. + +“Rise!” She grabbed him by his shoulder; he raised himself and looked +almost perplexed at her. “Go at once, this very minute, stand at the +cross-road, make your obeisance, first kiss the earth that you have +polluted, then bow to the whole world, on all four sides, and cry out +aloud to all, so that all may hear it: ‘I have murdered!’ Then God will +send you life again. Will you go? Will you?” she asked him, trembling as +if in a fit. She seized both his hands, pressed them tightly with her +own, and looked at him with a fiery glance. + +He was perplexed and was even surprised at her sudden ecstasy. + +“You are talking about Siberia, Sónya, are n’t you? If I understand you +right, I am to accuse myself,” he said gloomily. + +“What is necessary is to accept the suffering and redeem yourself +through suffering.” + +“No, Sónya, I won’t go to them.” + +“But how are you going to live?--how are you? What are you going to live +by?” Sónya exclaimed. “Will that be possible now? How are you going to +talk to your mother? Oh, what will become of them, what will become of +them now? But what am I saying? You have already abandoned mother and +sister. You have abandoned them, you have. O Lord!” she exclaimed, “he +knows all that himself! How, pray, how can one live without people? What +will become of you?” + +“Be no child, Sónya,” he softly said. “What am I guilty of in their +presence? Why should I go? What shall I tell them? That is all +visionary---- They themselves get away with people by the million, and +regard it a virtue. They are rascals and villains, Sónya!---- I won’t +go. What should I tell them?--that I have killed somebody, and that I +did not dare take the money, but hid it under a rock?” he added with a +sarcastic smile. “Why, they will themselves laugh at me, and will say: +‘He was a fool not to take the money. A coward and a fool!’ They will +understand nothing, absolutely nothing, Sónya, and they do not deserve +to understand. Why should I go? Be no child, Sónya.” + +“You will worry your life away, you will worry your life away,” she +repeated, stretching out her hands to him, and imploring him with a +despairing look. + +“Maybe I have incriminated myself beyond necessity,” he remarked +gloomily, as if lost in meditation, “maybe I am still a man, and not a +louse, and have been too hasty in accusing myself---- I will struggle on +for a while.” + +A haughty smile lay on his closed lips. + +“To bear such a torment! And it is for a lifetime, for a lifetime!” + +“I ’ll get used to it,” he said morosely and pensively. “Listen,” he +began a minute later, “it ’s time to stop weeping, and think of +business. I came to tell you that they are looking for me now, and +trying to catch me----” + +“Ah!” exclaimed Sónya in fright. + +“Why have you cried out! You yourself wanted me to be sent to the mines, +and now you are frightened. But let me tell you: I am not going to give +myself up to them. I will struggle on, and they will do nothing. They +have no real clue. Yesterday I was in great danger, and I thought that I +was undone; but to-day things have improved. All their proofs have two +ends to them, that is, I can turn their accusations to my advantage, do +you understand? And I will do so, for I have learned a thing or two. But +they will certainly put me in jail. If it had not been for just one +incident, they would have put me in jail to-day, and maybe they still +will---- But that is nothing, Sónya. I shall stay there a while, and +then they will let me out, for they have not a single proper proof, and +there will be none,--I give you my word for it. With what they know, +they cannot hold a man. Well, that ’s enough---- I just wanted you to +know---- I shall try to fix matters with my mother and sister, so as to +allay their suspicions and fears. Besides, my sister seems to be +provided for at present, consequently mother too. Well, that ’s all. +However, you want to be cautious. Will you come to see me in jail, when +I am taken there?” + +“O yes, I will, I will!” + +They were sitting side by side, sorrowful and crushed, as if cast by a +storm on a desolate shore. He looked at Sónya and he felt how much her +love was upon him, and, strange to say, he suddenly had a heavy and +painful feeling because he was loved. Yes, that was a strange and +terrible sensation! As he was on his way to Sónya, he felt that all his +hope was in her. He had hoped to put away part of his sufferings, and +now that all her heart had turned to him, he suddenly felt and knew that +he was infinitely more unhappy than he had been before. + +“Sónya,” he said, “you had better not come to see me in jail.” + +Sónya did not answer, she was weeping. + +“You won’t, will you?” + +“Here, take this cypress cross. I have another, of copper, that used to +belong to Lizavéta. Lizavéta and I have exchanged crosses: she gave me +her cross, and I gave her my image. I shall now wear Lizavéta’s, and you +keep this one. Take it--it is mine! It is mine!” she begged him. “We +will suffer together, let us together bear the cross!” + +“Give it to me!” said Raskólnikov. He did not wish to offend her. But he +immediately drew back the hand that he had stretched out to receive the +cross. + +“Not now, Sónya. Better some other time,” he added, in order to calm +her. + +“Yes, yes, better later,” she said in rapture, “when you begin your +punishment, then you will put it on. You will come to me, and I shall +put it on you; then we will pray and we shall start.” + + + + + Apollón Nikoláevich Máykov. (1821-1898.) + + + A. N. Máykov was the grandson of V. I. Máykov, the author of the + _Eliséy_ (see vol. i., p. 263), and the son of a well-known artist. He + passed his early childhood in the country, near Moscow, until his + family, in 1834, emigrated to St. Petersburg. Here he early came in + contact with the literary circles, and was prepared for the university + by Goncharóv (see p. 259), who was his tutor in Russian literature. At + first he devoted himself entirely to painting, and attached little + importance to his poetical talents; but his growing nearsightedness + interfered with his artistic activity, and the flattering reception of + his verses by Byelínski led him to turn his attention to poetry. In + 1842 he went abroad, staying more than a year in Italy, attending the + Collège de France and the Sorbonne, and plunging into the Pan-slavic + propaganda at Prague. Upon his return he wrote a large number of + poems, dealing with his European impressions, and also some from + Russian history. He excelled in the description of classic antiquity, + which culminated in his great work, _The Two Worlds_, with _Three + Deaths_ as a kind of prologue to it; his classic knowledge appears to + great advantage in his _Anthological Poems_. Of his medieval poems may + be mentioned _Savonarola_ and _The Council of Clermont_. He kept + entirely aloof from the questions of the day, and Russian contemporary + history and life occupied but a small space in his productions: he + either betook himself to depicting scenery, as in _The Catching of the + Fish_, or to the idealisation of the past. Of his many translations, + mainly from the Slavic languages, must be especially mentioned his + admirable modernisation of _The Word of Ígor’s Armament_. + + In Macmillan’s Magazine, vol. xxxiii. (1877), is given _To the Empress + of India_; in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, London, 1887, are + given: _The Cornfields_, _Hay-making_, _The Mountain Spring_, _The + Idiot Girl_, _A Picture_; in John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_, + London, 1891: _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_, _Who Was He?_, _The Easter + Kiss_, _On Lomonósov_, _Propriety_, _The Singer_, _A Little Picture_, + _The Alpine Glacier_, _The Mother_, _The Kiss Refused_, _The + Snowdrop_, _A Smile and a Tear_. In The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society: by F. P. Marchant, _The Marble Faun_, in No. 19, _On + Re-reading Pushkin_, in No. 32, _The Thought_, _Hesiod_, _The Muse_, + _The Peris_, _The Hermit_, _Happy realm of youth eternal_, _When + overwhelmed by grief_, _From the Gnostics_, in No. 33; by J. Pollen, + reprint of his _A Little Picture_, in No. 33. In Free Russia are + given: by Elizabeth Gibson, _The Council of Constance_, in vol. xi., + Nos. 8-10, and parts of the _Three Deaths_, in vol. xii., No. 4. In + the Library of the World’s Best Literature are reprinted J. Pollen’s + _The Easter Kiss_, _The Alpine Glacier_, _The Kiss Refused_. + + + THE PERIS + + Her sins atoned by tears of sorrow, + Those penitential tears scarce dry, + The soul, by her Creator pardoned, + Flies on swift wings to realms on high. + + Through starry space, the soul embracing, + White peris take their flight along, + While choirs of infant cherubs thronging + Greet her with bursts of joyous song. + + Oh, with ecstatic cries of rapture + She would fill all the heavenly plains, + Would render thanks, and in rejoicing + Forget all former earthly pains! + + But, circling round with curious glances + And coaxing wiles, the peris all + Entreat her, with most tender pleading, + To tell the story of her fall. + + Is it their joy a soul to comfort, + From earthly trials gone up on high? + Or do they know by strange traditions + This world of sin beyond the sky? + + --Transl. by F. P. Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society, No. 33. + + + WHO WAS HE? + + + A STORY OF PETER THE GREAT + + Upon the mighty Neva’s bank, + Along the winding woodland way, + A Horseman rode, in forest wilds + Of elms, of pine, of mosses grey. + + Before him rose a Fisher’s hut; + Beneath a pine, by the blue stream, + An aged, bearded Fisherman + Was mending his boat’s broken beam. + + The Horseman said, “Grandsire! Good-day! + God help thee, friend! how livest thou? + Dost thou catch much? and tell me, pray, + Where dost thou sell thy takings now?” + + The old man answered sullenly, + “Are fishes in the river few? + And other market have I none + Except the town, there, close to you. + + “And how am I to fish to-day? + What kind of turmoil’s here, you see! + You fight; and, in the fight, a shell + Has smashed my fishing-boat for me!” + + The Horseman bounded from his horse, + Without a word the tools he grasped; + And in a twinkling planked the boat, + The rudder in the stern set fast. + + “See, now, old friend, thy boat’s all right! + Out on the water boldly set; + And, in the name of Peter’s luck, + Cast forth into the deep thy net.” + + He vanished. Mused the stern old man: + “I wonder who the de’il was he! + In every inch he looked a king, + But plied the hatchet splendidly.” + + --From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_. + + + THE MARBLE FAUN + + Through a deserted garden-walk I wandered in the shade, + The rosy twilight faded, and of leaves the trees all bare + In dark clusters stood around me, while the autumn evening made + The atmosphere quite chilly. Then among the thickets there + I chanced to find a statue of a faun once white and clean, + With rubbish, dust, and moss encrusted, dingy, mildewed, green. + He glanced from out the branches with a pleasant smile, and these + Set in motion gently by the wind, his strong visage swept, + While hidden from my downward glance the marble form they kept. + I saw the aged lindens shake, and lo, among the trees + Were other forms of marble that within their foliage slept. + But what of all most struck my view wrapped in the shrubs’ embrace + Was that one marble image-head and mocking, smiling face. + I admired the ancient idol, long neglected, for a while, + And the face amid the thicket threw at me a cunning smile. + I felt a kind of pity. “Thou wert held of old divine, + Image cynical and smiling! To the flute’s melodious sound + Men prepared to thee the sacrifice, for thee the flames did shine, + They uttered prayers, the lamb expired, and thou wert sprinkled round + With the fresh blood of the victim. Now, I pray thee, let me know, + Art thou sighing for the days gone by,--thy vanished power and crown? + Then upon those youthful races did a happier lot pour down? + Or have sages merely fabled of the days of long ago? + Was that tale a vain invention, of their lives of peace and joy, + Or did ceaseless labour in the field their energies employ? + Thou dost smile upon me, dost thou?--Then when dawned a later date + Thou didst gaze, a mute spectator, on a splendid court and state; + Thou wert looked on as a marvel when among the ruins found, + Then the garden was laid out for thee, and thou wert compassed round + With the tritons and the naiads, with Athenians old and wise, + And with Rome’s Imperial Cæsars and Greek Sovereigns of the skies; + Thou didst look on it with laughter, and thy pleasant visage glowed + On the ball-scene’s glitter gazing. Then the garden overflowed + With the ringing strains of music. In that alley’s gloomy shade + A pair of youthful lovers from the guests their shelter made. + Thou didst note their stolen interviews among the bushes dark, + Thou didst hear the kiss resounding, and their fond caresses mark. + Tell me further: were those lovers’ ardent pledges kept for long + Unrepentant and unbroken? Was their hearts’ love always strong, + Shining brightly, burning ever, not expiring like a spark? + Were their names and plighted promise,--on thy pedestal here traced + By precise and earnest fingers,--by the raindrops soon effaced? + Or, maybe, they wandered here again, beneath thy lindens’ shade, + Where to meet with other paramours they new appointments made? + Through the thick boughs overhanging did thy sly and sneering smile + From their amorous professions tear the treacherous mask away? + Did their faces, flushed with crimson, their deceitful hearts betray?” + + ──────────────────────────────────── + + Thus I gazed in mute inquiry on the statue for a while, + And the marble cynic answered with his calm, sarcastic smile. + + --Transl. by F. P. Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society, No. 19. + + + FROM THE LYRIC DRAMA “THREE DEATHS” + + + THE DEATH OF SENECA AND OF LUCIUS + + (_Having embraced Seneca and Lucius, Lucan exit, in company of the + lictors._) + +_Seneca_ (_wants to follow him, but stops as his disciples rush up to +him; stroking his brow, he speaks softly and solemnly_). I had but one +aim in life, and I have walked to it over a rugged path. My life has +ever been a moral school: and death is but a new lesson, a new letter, +amidst the eternal and wondrous alphabet, a pledge of a higher, endless +science! The Creator has given me a stern mind with which to scan the +universe, that what I have learned in me and it I may transmit to future +generations. He sent against me malice, monstrous and vile debauch, +that, like an oak upon the height midst storms, I might grow strong +through artful battling, that among a mass of deeds and acts I might +impress my image---- I have accomplished all. My form is cast. Yet one +more chisel’s sweep,--and proudly shall it stand through ages. The +chisel shall not quiver. Terror shall not bind my hands. My journey is +finished here,--but my spirit, made in this terrestrial life more +perfect and more wise, will enter eternity. Open is the door before me, +and I see the dawn of another life---- + +(_The philosopher’s friends, sobbing, embrace his knees. Looking at +them, he proceeds_:) + +Life is good when in the world we are a necessary link, and one with all +the living; when at the banquet I am not superfluous; when going with +the people to the fane, I worship the same gods with them. But when the +crowd, apart from you, has raised up a divinity and with cruel malice +watches the movements of your heart; when, seeing you afar, they point +their fingers (oh, believe me, friends, it is not easy to live an +outcast wanderer!) at the remnants of better generations, with their +ancient virtue in their breast:--we pass like corpses, like shadows, +like jesters in the forum! And unobserved a mighty wind will drown us +midst the rippling waves, like worthless chips of once victorious +ships---- + +Our age is past. Our time is up, O brothers! Others have now come into +the world; other feelings and conceptions they have brought with +them---- Perchance, believing stubbornly in the traditions of our youth, +we, like an ominous blast, congeal the renovated lives of men. +Perhaps----the truth is not with us! Our mind no longer grasps it, and +looks up with weakened eyes, yet not ahead, nor sees the light of truth, +and wails: “No, there is no salvation!” And, perchance, another man will +come, and he will say: “Here is the light!” No! Our time is up!---- Cut +open now my arteries! O greatest of all gifts, O death, you are now in +my hands! O Socrates! O teacher! Dearest friend! To you I go! + +(_Exit, accompanied by his disciples._) + +_Lucius._ Well finished, Seneca! Thou borest it gloriously! And now, one +hero less!---- Looking at the man, I feel aggrieved! What matters it +that thou art dead? That to the end thy courage did not flag? For +gossips and for calumny thou hast for two days given food to Rome! In +this alone thy exploit lies! + +(_Looks through the window at the sky and at the distant mountains._) + +How all is quiet there! The mountains--clear---- Even thus the gods look +reckless from the heavens at the human race! And what is there to see? + +(_Scans the room._) + +’T is terrible here to live, and let alone--to die! But little time is +left for life. What use is there to grant one needless hour to cruel +Nemesis? For great exploits one needs a rest, a joyful mood, and--a good +supper---- Glory after death avails us not! What happiness is this that +in the future a bearded rhetorician will expound you as a model for his +schoolboys? With future mysteries I have no dealings! Or whether here my +life will come to an end, or bodiless my soul may live,--in any case I +’ll be no longer man! But now, while still I live, I may with honour +dismiss my body, my old servant---- O slave! + +(_Enter slave, Lucius continuing._) + +In my villa by the sea prepare a splendid supper; in the amphitheatre, +below the mountains, strew flowers on my couch; call a ballet of +Bacchantes, a chorus of Fauns----and lyres and timbrels,--not the kind +of chorus as last time, when the basso was a squeaker! Open in the +garden all the fountains. Here is the key: in the inner storeroom are +some cups of Grecian workmanship,--get them. And send at once the slaves +to call my friends. Let all come who are alive. Thyself go to Marcellus. +Ask him humbly, he has long had in keeping some Horatian wine. Tell him +that thy master begs him not to refuse him anything, and that to-day he +deigns to die! Well, think of everything--thou hast been a faithful +slave, and thou art not forgotten in my testament. + +(_The slave falls down to his feet._) + +Haggle not, nor be niggardly,--let the supper teem with fabulous +dainties! Yes, I have forgot the main thing: go, knock at the door of +careless Pyrrha! Take basketfuls of flowers to her and let her, laughing +heedlessly, come, brighter than springtime, to grace my supper. + +(_Exit slave._) + +And on the knees of the dear maid I will with tensest power of life +intoxicate my soul with the fragrance of the herbs, and with the +sleeping sea, and with the sun immerging in the waves, and Pyrrha’s +lucent beauty! And when my senses weary feasting, she will, with gentle +smiles, give to me, not knowing it herself, the deadly draught in wine, +and I will jesting die, scarce audible, a true, wise Sybarite who, +having surfeited his dainty appetite at the luxurious table, sleeps +peaceably, surrounded by aromas. + + + + + Nikoláy Aleksyéevich Nekrásov. (1821-1877.) + + + Nekrásov was the son of an impoverished landed proprietor who served + on the military staff, and of a Polish mother, who was his first + teacher. In 1832 he was sent to the Yarosláv Gymnasium. Here he made + little progress in the ancient languages and in mathematics, and, + having reached the fifth form, was obliged to leave on account of some + satires he had written against the school authorities. He went to St. + Petersburg and entered the university as a special student, but his + extreme poverty made any regular progress impossible and undermined + his health. He occasionally wrote prose stories for a variety of + periodicals, and in 1840 he published his first volume of poems which, + having been unfavourably received, he later bought up and destroyed. + Then he published a number of volumes of miscellaneous collections, + and in 1847 became the editor of _The Contemporary_, formerly + Púshkin’s magazine. The most active period of Nekrásov’s life began in + 1856, since when he produced all the poems by which he lives. It is + difficult to characterise Nekrásov’s poetry, as it represents so many + different aspects: there are in it elegies and lyrics in Púshkin’s + best style, satires which have earned for him the name of the Russian + Juvenal, and popular verses dealing with the life of all classes of + society, especially with the peasant. The great wealth of native + scenery which he depicts, the idiomatic, inimitable language of his + poems, the objectivity of his themes, united with a graceful lyricism, + make him the most notable of Russian poets. Among his best productions + are _Red-Nosed Frost_, _Who Lives in Russia Happily?_, _The Peddlers_, + and a large number of shorter poems. + + English translations: _A Moral Man_, by Alexander Koumanin, in + Cornhill Magazine, 1863; _The Forgotten Village_, _Village News_, + _Brandy_, _The Unreaped Plot_, _On the Road_, and parts of _The + Railroad_, _In the Village_, and _Red-Nosed Frost_, by W. R. S. + Ralston, in the Contemporary Review, vol. xxvii. (1876); _Red-Nosed + Frost_, translated in the original metres [by J. Sumner Smith], + Boston, 1886, second edition emended, 1887; _The Forgotten Village_, + _The Field Unreaped_, _Mary_, _The Hospital_, _The Song of the + Convicts_, _A Mother’s Tears_, in C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_, + London, 1887; _Te Deum_, _The Prophet_, _Offer my Muse a friendly + hand_, _Dream_, _A Sick Man’s Jealousy_, _The Landlord of Old Times_, + _The Russian Soldier_, in John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_, + London, 1891 (_The Prophet_ and _The Russian Soldier_ reprinted in + Library of the World’s Best Literature); in Free Russia, by Charlotte + Sidgwick, _I am weak, I am old, and another_, in vol. x., Nos. 8-10, + and _The Song of the Poor Wanderer_, in vol. x., No. 12, and by Mary + Grace Walker, _War_, in vol. x., No. 11; in The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society, by A. C. Coolidge, _The Unmown Strip_ and _When from thine + error_, in No. 14 (from the Harvard Monthly Magazine, 1895); by F. P. + Marchant, _Farewell_ and _I gaz’d upon thy tomb_, in No. 16; by J. + Pollen, _’Tis May in the meadows_, in No. 19; by Leo Wiener and A. C. + Coolidge, _Who Lives Happily in Russia?_ (reprinted from Harvard + Monthly Magazine, 1898), in No. 25; by Mrs. Rosa Newmarch, some + extracts, in No. 30; by Leo Wiener, _The Railroad_, in No. 33; by L. + A. Magnus, _The Poet to his Love_, in No. 34. + + + FROM “RED-NOSED FROST” + + Three grievous allotments had Fortune decreed:-- + Allotment the first,--with a slave man to marry; + The second,--the mother to be of his seed; + The third,--until death his hard yoke e’er to carry. + And all these allotments so grievous did lie + On woman ’neath Russia’s broad sky. + + The ages have passed: all for pleasure has striven; + To manifold change all on earth has been given. + + The poor peasant woman alone is forgot: + No change in her lot has God made. + Of feminine beauty and strength, we all wot, + The type, ’mong the Slavs, has decayed. + + Fortuitous victim of fate! + Hast suffered unseen and unheard; + The world has not told of thy strait, + Of plaining hast uttered no word. + + But me thou, my friend, wilt tell all; + From childhood together we ’ve plodded:-- + Fatigue and dismay on thee fall, + All misery in thee is embodied. + No heart in his breast carrieth he + Who tears doth not shed over thee. + + ──────────────────────────────────── + + We ’ve thus of the serf woman spoken, + However, with purpose to say:-- + The type of the stately Slavonian, + Perhaps, may be found e’en to-day. + + In Russ hamlets women are dwelling, + Of countenance earnest, serene; + In all grace of movement excelling; + In bearing and look like a queen. + + Perhaps they ’ll escape the dim-sighted; + But one who can see says of them:-- + “She passes--with sunshine all ’s lighted! + And looks--’t is like giving a gem!” + + The paths all our people are thronging + They follow,--the same burthens bring; + But mire, to their low lot belonging, + To them as it were does not cling. + + See blooming,--a world’s admiration,-- + The beauty! tall, rosy, well-shaped; + Proficient in each occupation; + A beauty, however she ’s draped; + + Both hunger and cold calmly brooking; + Content, ever patient, discreet. + I oft as she moved have been looking: + One flourish--a haycock complete! + + Her kerchief is o’er her ear slipping, + Her tresses are ready to fall. + And then some young fellow comes tripping-- + The rascal! and up throws them all: + + The flaxen, luxuriant tresses + O’erspread her tanned bosom, and wrap + Her little bare feet in caresses; + Her eyes, too, in darkness entrap: + + She quickly her locks apart brushes, + And fiercely a glance at him throws; + Her tress-enframed, proud face with blushes + Of passion, of hot anger glows. + + On work-days she likes full employment. + But strange will to you be her face + When from it the smile of enjoyment + The sigil of toil shall erase: + + Such laughter, so hearty! such measure + In song and in dance! no such treats + With gold can be purchased. “What pleasure!” + Each peasant to each oft repeats. + + The horseman she ’ll vanquish in racing; + In danger, not flinching, she ’ll save: + A galloping steed boldly facing; + To enter a burning hut, brave. + + Her beautiful, regular teeth + Seem pearls, when to view them one chances; + But firmly the lips’ rosy sheath + Conceals them from people’s rude glances. + + She rarely indulges in laughter, + For jesting she ’s no time to spare; + Not oft dares her neighbour come after + Some item of her kitchen ware. + + No pity has she for the tramp,-- + Why country paths uselessly scour? + Of scrupulous fitness the stamp + She bears and of immanent power. + + She knows, as ’t were writ in her creed, + In labour is all their salvation; + And labour returns her the meed:-- + Her household knows never privation; + + They ’ve always a warm roof o’erhead, + Bread well-baked, and kvas of good savour; + The children are healthy, well-fed; + For high-days there ’s some extra favour. + + This woman goes forth Sunday morn + To mass, all her family guiding: + Is sitting a child, two years born, + Her bosom upon, and there riding: + + The mother, well dressed, by the hand + Is leading her six-years-old boy. + This picture all friends of Russ land, + All friends of Russ folk will enjoy. + + --From [J. Sumner Smith’s] _Red-Nosed Frost_, Boston, 1887. + + + A MORAL MAN + + A strictly moral man have I been ever, + And never injured anybody--never. + + I lent my friend a sum he could not pay, + I jogged his memory in a friendly way,-- + Then took the law of him th’ affair to end,-- + The law to prison sent my worthy friend. + He died there,--not a farthing for poor me! + I am not angry, though I ’ve cause to be. + His debt that very moment I forgave, + And shed sad tears of sorrow o’er his grave. + A strictly moral man have I been ever, + And never injured anybody--never. + + I sent my slave to learn the art of dressing + Meat;--he succeeded,--a good cook ’s a blessing; + But he too oft would leave his occupation, + And gained a taste not suited to his station. + He liked to read, to reason, and discuss-- + I, tired of scolding, without further fuss + Had the rogue flogged,--all for the love of him: + He went and drowned himself,--’t was a strange whim. + A strictly moral man have I been ever, + And never injured anybody--never. + + My silly daughter fell in love one day, + And with her tutor wished to run away: + I threatened curses and pronounced my ban; + She yielded, and espoused a rich old man. + Their house was splendid, brimming o’er with wealth, + But suddenly poor Mary lost her health, + And in a year consumption wrought her doom: + She left us mourning o’er her early tomb. + A strictly moral man have I been ever, + And never injured anybody--never. + + --By Alexander Koumanin, in Cornhill Magazine, 1863. + + + FROM “WHO LIVES IN RUSSIA HAPPILY” + + + EPILOGUE + + What year it was,--you figure out! + What land it was,--you guess yourself! + Upon a level country road + Were gathered seven muzhíks: + They all had masters whom they served + I’ the Government of Strained-too-hard, + The county called Enduring-much, + The district Fallowlandedness, + In villages hard by: + In Patchedupville and Raggedtown, + In Emptyville and Freezingtown, + In Burnedupville, and Hungerville, + And in Cropfailingthorpe; + They met and quarrelled straight away: + “Who lives in Russia happily + And to his heart’s content?” + + Román declared--“The landowner,” + Demyán declared--“The bureaucrat,” + Luká declared--“The priest.” + “The merchant with his goodly paunch,” + The Gúbin brothers both declared, + Iván and Mitrodór. + But old Pakhóm looked gloomily + Upon the ground, and said at last: + “The gentleman of noble birth, + The minister of the Emperor,” + While Prov declared: “The Tsar.”---- + + Muzhíks are stubborn like the ox: + Let any nonsense fill their heads, + You cannot pound it out of them, + Each one sticks to his mind. + They started such a loud dispute + That all the passers-by averred + They must have found a treasure-trove, + The fuss is--to divide. + + That forenoon each had left his house, + On business each had sallied out: + One to the blacksmith’s shop was bound, + One to the town Ivánkovo + To call the priest Prokópius, + His baby to baptise. + Pakhóm was taking honeycombs + To market in Velíkoë, + And both the brothers Gúbin had + With bridle started out to catch + The wild horse of the herd. + ’T were better that they long ago + Had gone each one where business called, + Yet they together keep! + They walk as if there were grey wolves + Behind them, chasing after them,-- + The farther, quicker still; + They walk, they brawl unceasingly; + They cry and do not come to sense, + But time waits not for them. + They quarrelled on, they did not see + The sun was red, was sinking fast,-- + The evening had set in. + In faith, they would have walked all night, + They would have walked not knowing where, + If pockmarked old Durándikha + Had not addressed them, meeting them, + And spoken to them: “Gentlemen! + As night has come upon you, where + Do you intend to go?”---- + + The old witch asked, then laughed aloud; + She struck her gelding with a whip, + And galloped out of sight. + + Where were they? As they gazed around, + They did not know themselves; + They stood, they paused, they drooped their heads,---- + ’T was night-time long ago, + The stars were twinkling way above + Upon the vaulted sky. + The moon swam out, the shadows dark + Stopped further headlong gait. + O shadows, shadows black and thick! + Who is there that you will not catch? + Of whom will you not get ahead? + And yet there ’s no one, shadows black, + Can seize you and embrace! + + Into the wood and down the road + Pakhóm looked round him silently; + He looked, he pondered in his mind, + And then at last he said: + + “The wood spirit has played on us + A pretty joke to-night! + Indeed we must have surely tramped + Some thirty versts[17] at least; + And, as for walking home again,-- + We ’re tired, we should peter out. + Sit down--there ’s nothing to be done-- + Let ’s rest till break of day!”---- + + Then blaming loud the wood spirit, + Beside the road, right in the wood, + The peasants sat them down. + They made a fire, each did his part, + And two of them for vódka[18] went, + The while the others to the wood + Repaired to make a drinking cup + Of bark stripped from the birch. + The vódka came in proper time; + There also somehow came some food,-- + A feast for the muzhíks! + Three glasses each man had to drink; + They ate,--they quarrelled once again: + “Who lives in Russia happily + And to his heart’s content?” + Román cried out: “The landowner,” + Demyán cried out: “The bureaucrat,” + Luká cried out: “The priest”; + “The merchant with his goodly paunch,”-- + The Gúbin brothers both cried out, + Iván and Mitrodór. + Pakhóm cried out: “His Excellence, + The gentleman of noble birth, + The minister of the Emperor,” + And Prov cried out: “The Tsar!” + + Thus worse than ever brawled again + The quarrelsome muzhíks; + They cursed, they called each other names, + Till soon enough they came to blows, + And grabbed each other’s hair. + Look! as each one has grabbed the next, + Román is hitting at Pakhóm, + Demyán hits at Luká, + And both the brothers Gúbin hit + At Prov--while each one yells. + + The far-resounding echo woke, + And rolling wandered on and on, + And louder cried from side to side, + As if to tease, to imitate, + The obstinate muzhíks. + “The Tsar!” it spoke to the right of them, + But to the left the answer came: + “The priest! The priest! The priest!” + Then all the wood was full of fright: + The very birds that flit about, + The very beasts, the swift-footed, + The very crawling, creeping things,-- + ’T was groan and roar and bawl. + + The grey-haired rabbit, first of all, + From out the bush jumped suddenly + And looked around distractedly,-- + He jumped and disappeared. + The youthful jackdaws perched aloft + Upon a birch-tree standing near + Set up a piteous squeak. + And in the neighbouring peewit’s home + The baby from its mother’s nest + Was scared and tumbled out. + The little peewit chirped and wept: + Where is her birdie gone? + The old and feeble cuckoo woke, + Awoke and sat there wondering + If she should cuckoo now; + Ten times, at least, she made a start, + But every time she lost the beat, + And had to start again---- + You cuckoo, cuckoo, dear old bird! + As soon as wheat is in the ear + You ’ll choke yourself with wheaten ears,[19] + You ’ll cuckoo then no more. + Next, seven horncoots from all sides + Have gathered to enjoy the fight,-- + They peer from seven trees: + These midnight ones are laughing loud; + Their large round eyes of yellow hue + Are burning just like fourteen lights + Of pure and virgin wax. + The raven, bird of common-sense, + Is here and sitting on a tree + Beside the burning fire; + He sits and to the devil prays + That they may somehow pound to death + At least one of the lot. + The cow, that with her bell had strayed + Away that evening from the herd, + Approached, attracted by the sound + Of human voices’ tones. + She slowly walked up to the fire, + She stared at the muzhíks. + She listened to their foolish talk, + And then began with all her might + To low, to low, to low. + + The silly cow is lowing loud, + The youthful jackdaws squeak and pipe, + The seven muzhíks are boisterous,-- + The echo seconds all. + The echo has but this desire: + To tease an honest man, to scare + A woman or a child. + No one has ever seen it yet, + But all have heard it more than once: + Without a body--yet it lives, + Without a tongue--it cries. + + The owl, a Moscow princess once,[20] + Is flitting here from side to side; + She flies above the peasants’ heads, + Or with her wings sweeps o’er the ground + Or o’er the bush nearby. + + The fox himself, of crafty mind, + With womanish curiosity + Crept close to the muzhíks. + He listened, listened carefully, + And went away at last convinced-- + “The Deuce can’t make it out”; + The brawlers hardly knew themselves,-- + They had forgotten by that time + The cause of all the row. + + They hit each other lustily, + Came to their senses finally,-- + Agreed to strike no more. + They drank some water from the pool, + They washed themselves, refreshed themselves, + And sleepiness set in. + + --Transl. by L. Wiener, revised by A. C. Coolidge, in The Harvard + Monthly, January, 1898, and in The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society, No. 25. + + [17] A verst is about three-fifths of a mile. + + [18] The national liquor in Russia, consumed in large quantities. + + [19] According to a popular superstition in Russia the cuckoo is + silent when the wheat is in the ear. + + [20] A Russian legend. + + + THE UNMOWN STRIP + + Late in the autumn, the rooks are diverted; + Bare is the forest, the field is deserted. + + Only one strip which is lying unmown: + Sad are its musings in stillness alone. + + “Truly,” each blade to the other is sighing, + “Weary are we of the autumn wind crying: + + Weary of bowing to earth as we must, + Burying our grain-laden heads in the dust. + + Scarce is it night, when the birds flocking near us + Halt on their passage to greedily tear us. + + Hares tread us down, and the storm vents its hate.-- + Where is our peasant? What more does he wait? + + Were we, then, worse at our birth than all others? + Have we not sprouted and grown like our brothers? + + No! We ’re not worse than the rest. Long in vain + In us hath germed and hath ripened the grain. + + Was it for this he was ploughing and sowing, + That we should bend to the autumn gales blowing?” + + Borne on the breeze the sad answer came back: + “It is the power your peasant doth lack. + + He knew the why of his ploughing and sowing, + Started his work, but his strength all unknowing. + + Ill fares the wight, he can drink not nor eat; + For his sick heart is the canker-worm’s seat. + + And the strong arms that his plough used to guide him, + Dried to dead stalks, now like whips hang beside him. + + Dim were his eyes, and his voice hollow rang; + Mournful indeed was the song that he sang + + When with his hand at the plough ever present, + Wrapped in his thoughts, o’er the strip moved the peasant.” + + --By A. C. Coolidge, in The Harvard Monthly, 1895. + + + A MOTHER’S TEARS + + With each fresh victim in the strife, + When war’s dire terrors round us roll, + I pity neither friend, nor wife, + I pity not the heroic soul. + + The wife will soon new comfort gain, + His friend the best of friends forget, + And scarce a single soul remain, + That, until death, remembers yet. + + Amid the poor, prosaic round + Of things, which here so falsely show, + No tears are true, and sacred, found, + Save such as from a mother flow. + + The sons, in battlefield who sleep, + Her tears to memory fond recall; + E’en like to willow-trees, which weep + O’er boughs, that ever earthward fall. + + --From C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_. + + + + + Iván Sávich Nikítin. (1824-1861.) + + + Nikítin was born in Vorónezh, the birthplace of Koltsóv (see p. 176), + where his father was a chandler. At eight years of age he entered a + religious school, and later, in 1841, the Seminary in his native town. + He wrote his first poem while at school, but only in 1853 did he + succeed in having his verses printed in the Vorónezh Governmental + Gazette. These brought him in contact with the local cultured society + who encouraged him to write more. His first volume of collected poetry + was not favourably received by the literary circles of St. Petersburg, + who saw in Nikítin’s verses mere imitations of Koltsóv and Nekrásov; + his reputation has, however, risen since, and he is counted among the + better popular poets. Among his best verses are _The Ploughman_, _The + Plough_, _The Wife of the Driver_, _The Fist_, while such poems as + _The Morning_, _The Swallow’s Nest_, _A Winter Night in the Village_, + belong to the most popular of Russian songs. + + W. R. S. Ralston, in Contemporary Review, vol. xxiii. (1874), has + translated _The Stubborn Father_, _Burlák_, _A Winter Night in the + Village_. In C. T. Wilson’s _Russian Lyrics_ are translated _The + Yamshchik’s Wife_, _The Grandfather_, _The State of the Departed_, + _The Churchyard_. In The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 28, F. P. + Marchant translated _The Inheritance_, and in No. 30 Mrs. Rosa + Newmarch gives a part of _The Village Money-Lender_ and _The Gaffer_. + + + BURLÁK[21] + + Ah, friends! You too have had your sorrows,--else + A song would never make you weep. Well now, + Just hear what I have gone through,--then you ’ll know + What sorrow really means. + + My father died + When I was just nineteen, and I was left + An orphan, and at first alone,--but soon + A neighbour’s daughter won my heart; I pleased her, + And we were married,--happily did we live + Together. I could fancy she had brought me + Happiness with her--(Heaven be hers, poor thing!) + You can’t conceive how good a manager + She was,--she would n’t waste a single farthing. + In the long winter evenings, she would light + A firewood splinter, and then spin away + For hours,--not pausing till the cock would crow. + Then would she lay her down,--but with the dawn + She was up again,--would run to give their food + To the sheep and cows,--next light the fire,--and then + Betake her to the spinning-wheel again, + Or find some other indoor work to do. + When summer came, she helped to cut the rye + And carry it, nor ever weary. I would say, + “Is n’t it time to rest?” + “Oh, no!” she ’d cry, + “I ’m not a bit tired.”-- + Every now and then + Perhaps I ’d buy her something as a present. + “You need n’t have done that, my bonny bird,” + She ’d say, “we love each other much too well + To care for presents--don’t go wasting money + On me.”-- + + My life with her was just as if + I ’d been in Paradise. + But no one knows + How calamity may fall upon him! + My wife lay down to rest within the grave,-- + The world grows dark whene’er I think of it. + + My only consolation was my child,-- + I ’d only one,--a fair-skinned, dark-haired boy, + As like his mother as one drop to another;-- + He had begun to spell a bit already, + And I to think, “My boy will be a man.” + But that was not God’s pleasure.--In the spring + He got some kind of sickness. We called in + Wise women, soothsayers, had magic drinks + For him to take. I promised I would give + A rouble for a candle,--to be burnt + Before the holy image in the church---- + But God refused to listen to my prayer-- + I had to lay my darling in the coffin, + And bear him to the graveyard.---- + + In those days, + Those dreary days, ’t was bitter for me, friends! + My heavy arms hung listlessly,--my neighbours + Gathered their harvest. All the fields around + Were blithe with song--But there I pined away + With heavy sorrow. When the day was done, + The heavy-laden carts would come from the field + And in a line drive creaking through the village. + But in my cottage I would sit alone + Trying to stem my tears. + The autumn passed. + I waited till the first snow fell.--Methought + I ’ll sell my rye, fit up a sledge, and go + And earn a living with it somewhere. + Suddenly + Woe upon woe! A murrain seized my cattle,-- + Never until I die shall I forget + That fatal year.-- + I managed to get through + The winter somehow. But I saw I ’d lost + My old position. In our village meetings, + This one would flout me, saying:--“Good! It seems + The barest beggar thinks he has the right + To meddle in the business of the Commune!” + That one would gird at me behind my back, + And cry:--“The lazy fellow! Such a one as he + Will never gain his bread. In my opinion, + If one ’s a man, one never will give way, + Whatever happens.” + All this talk and laughter + Aroused me;--God assisted me, I think. + I felt a longing for a freer life. + I got a passport, paid up all my taxes, + And joined the bargemen. + Since that time my grief + Has yielded to the Vólga’s dark blue wave---- + Rest follows toil: upon the river side + Bright burns the evening fire,--a comrade starts + A song,--the rest join in,--your spirits rise,-- + A thrill runs o’er your limbs,--you sing yourself. + And if at times a dreary season comes, + And half-forgotten sorrows vex your soul,-- + There ’s solace still. You hear the river’s roar, + Singing a freedom to the sweeping plain. + Fast beats your heart;--you burn,--though wintry cold + The weather, yet you want no cloak to warm you. + Aboard and take your seat! Fall back on the oar! + Pleasant it is to brave the Russian storm. + The waves run mountain-high,--in snowy flakes + The foam flies fast; strange voices groan and wail. + The tempest roars and whistles,--from your soul + A cry arises: “Let God’s will be done. + If we ’re to live, we ’ll live. And if to die,-- + Well then, so be it!” And you feel as though + Your heart had never known what sorrow meant. + + --From W. R. S. Ralston’s _Russian Idylls_, in The Contemporary + Review, 1874 (vol. xxiii.). + + [21] A labourer towing boats up the Vólga. + + + THE GAFFER + + Old Gaffer, with his beard and smooth bald head, + Sits in his chair. + His little mug of water, and his bread, + Stand near him there. + + Grey as a badger he: his brow is lined; + His features worn. + He ’s left a world of cark and care behind, + Since he was born. + + ’T is over now, his eyesight soon must go; + His strength is done. + Death laid within the churchyard long ago + Grandchild and son. + + A cat the smoke-grimed hut with Gaffer shares-- + Upon the stove + All day he sleeps. He too is old, nor cares + From thence to move. + + The old man still plaits shoes, with fingers slow, + From bark of birch. + His wants are few, his greatest joy to go + Into God’s church. + + He stands within the porch, against the wall, + Mutt’ring his prayers. + A loyal child, he thanks the Lord for all + Life’s griefs and cares. + + Cheery he lives,--with one foot in the grave,-- + In his dark hole. + Whence does he draw the strength that keeps him brave, + Poor peasant soul? + + --Transl. by Mrs. R. Newmarch, in The Anglo-Russian Literary + Society, No. 30. + + + + + Aleksyéy Nikoláevich Pleshchéev. (1825-1894.) + + + Pleshchéev was the most cultivated and the most sympathetic poet who + belonged to Nekrásov’s camp. He was born in the city of Kostromá, of + an ancient noble family. He studied at St. Petersburg at the School of + the Guard Cadets and at the university, without graduating from + either. He began writing poetry at the age of eighteen, and in 1846 + appeared the first edition of his poems. These were pervaded by a + militant spirit of liberty, and soon his sympathies with the liberal + movement brought him into trouble, for he was arrested in 1849 and + banished to Orenbúrg, with loss of all his civil rights. He there + served in the army as a common soldier, but rose in 1858 to the rank + of a commissioned officer, when his privileges were restored to him, + and he was permitted to return to Moscow. Up to that time he had + entirely abandoned literature, but now his former activity began anew, + and he enriched Russian letters with a large number of translations + from various languages, and with original lyrical verses. These no + longer are filled with the aspirations of his youth, but bear the + imprint of melancholy disappointment and renunciation. + + _Spring_ and _Passion_ are given in John Pollen’s _Rhymes from the + Russian_, and N. H. Dole has translated _A Legend_ (publication + unascertainable). + + + FORWARD + +Forward, without fear or doubt, to the valiant deed, my friends! I have +already seen the dawn of the holy redemption in the skies! + +Courage! We will take each other’s hands and boldly will move +onward,--and let our union grow and be strong under the banner of +science! + +We will chastise the priests of sin and falsehood with the word of +truth,--and we will awaken the sleeping from their sleep and will lead +the host to battle. + +We will not build an idol for ourselves, either upon earth, or in +heaven; we will not fall before it in the dust for all the gifts and +benefits of the world. + +We will proclaim the teaching of Love to the poor and to the rich,--and +for it we will endure persecution, forgiving our malevolent enemies. + +Blessed is he who has exhausted his life in a sanguinary struggle, in +heavy cares; he has not, like an indolent and tricky slave, buried his +talent in the ground! + +Let holy truth burn as a guiding star for us,--and, believe me, a noble +voice will not resound in vain in the world. + +Hearken, then, O brothers, to the word of a brother, as long as we are +full of youthful strength! Forward, forward,--and without returning, +whatever fate may have in store for us! + + + MY COUNTRY + +Scanty Nature of my native land, you are dear to my sad soul! Formerly, +in the days of my fleeting spring, the distant shores of other countries +enticed me. + +And my glowing imagination painted brilliant pictures before me: I saw +the transparently blue vault of the heavens, and the crenelated summits +of mighty mountains. + +Merged in the gold of midday beams, it seemed to me, the myrtle, the +planes, and the olive trees called me into the shade of spreading +branches, and roses beckoned silently to me---- + +Those were days when my spirit did not ponder, among the seductions of +life, over the aims of existence, and, being frivolous, I only demanded +enjoyment from it. + +But that time speedily disappeared without a trace,--and grief +unexpectedly visited me, and much with which my soul was not familiar +suddenly became dear to it. + +I then abandoned my secret dream of a magic and distant land,--and in my +country I discovered beauties invisible to the worldly eye. + +Furrowed fields, ears of yellow grain-fields, the speechless, majestic +expanse of the steppes, the freshets of broad rivers in the spring, +mysteriously rustling oak-forests; + +Sacred silence of poor villages, where the labourer, oppressed by +misery, prayed to heaven for a new, a better day,--the great day of +liberty, to rise over him; + +I understood you then,--and near to my heart suddenly grew the song of +my native land, whether in that song was heard deep pining or +unrestrained hilarity. + +My country, nothing in thee captivates the stranger’s eye; but thou art +dear by thy stern beauty to him who himself has yearned for freedom and +the wide expanse, and whose spirit has borne oppressive fetters. + + + A LEGEND + + Christ, when a child, a garden made, + And many roses flourished there. + He watered them three times a day + To make a garland for His hair; + And when in time the roses bloomed, + He called the children in to share. + They tore the flowers from every stem, + And left the garden stript and bare. + + “How wilt Thou weave Thyself a crown + Now that Thy roses are all dead?” + “Ye have forgotten that the thorns + Are left for me,” the Christ-child said. + They plaited then a crown of thorns, + And laid it rudely on His head,-- + A garland for His forehead made; + For roses, drops of blood instead. + + --Transl. by N. H. Dole (publication unascertainable). + + + SPRING + + Ah! who art thou, fair maid, with upland flowers + Twined in the glossy silk of golden hair, + With smile sunbright, with eyes the dove in hue, + With ray-like raiment spun from upper air? + Who gifted thee with deep mysterious power + To heal the aching heart of human woe? + At thy approach delights that long lay dead + Revive, and once again with glad life glow. + To honour thee a hymn doth Nature raise; + The babbling brooks and birds in chorus blend; + And pine-woods dark, shimmering in every spray, + To thee, as to a friend, their arms extend. + + I ’m but a Stranger-Guest, sent from on high + To weary souls a draught of peace to bring, + To soften wrath, to soothe fierce enmity; + I ’m but a Stranger-Guest,--they call me “Spring.” + + --From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_. + + + + + Aleksándr Nikoláevich Ostróvski. (1823-1886.) + + + No other dramatist is so characteristically Russian as Ostróvski. His + father was a poor scribe who acted as a kind of attorney to that + merchant class of Moscow which had not yet emerged from the manners + and beliefs preceding the days of the reforms of Peter the Great. + Ostróvski had, consequently, ample opportunity of getting acquainted + with these people, who had heretofore entirely escaped the scrutiny of + the litterateurs. When, in 1843, he was expelled from the university + for some misbehaviour, he found employment in the Commercial Court, + where he again came in contact with the merchant class. He had early + developed a passion for the theatre, and in 1847 appeared two of his + dramas, _Pictures of Family Happiness_ and _We’ll Square up Accounts + with Our Own_. The latter play gave offence to the merchants, who + complained to the authorities, and Ostróvski was placed under police + surveillance. Only five years later did he take up his pen again, and + as before he had strictly adhered to the traditions of Gógol’s school, + so now he paid his tribute to the Slavophile sentiments of Moscow by + idealising his characters. The best drama of that period is _Poverty + is no Vice_. After the Crimean War he began to represent in his dramas + the negative sides of the wealthy merchant class, and to oppose to + them the honesty and dignity of intelligent men. His chief production, + _The Storm_, belongs to that period. He also tried himself in + historical dramas, or _Dramatic Chronicles_, as he called them, but + they are the weakest of his works. All his dramas are more properly + realistic scenes lacking the element of conscious effect: they are + supremely natural and tax the ability of the greatest actors. + Ostróvski’s dramas soon became very popular, and he was elected + president of the Society of Russian Dramatic Authors. Just before his + death the Moscow Theatre was put in his charge, but his new activity + was cut short by his illness, brought about by years of privation and + suffering. + + In English translation are to be found: _The Storm_, by Constance + Garnett, London, 1899; _Incompatibility of Temper_ and _A Domestic + Picture_, in _The Humour of Russia_, by E. L. Voynich, London and New + York, 1895. Extracts from several dramas are given in _The Modern + Russian Drama_, in Edinburgh Review, cxxviii. (1868). + + + THE STORM + + + ACT V. SCENE 1. TWILIGHT. KULÍGIN (_sitting on a bench_), KABANÓV + (_walking in the square_) + +_Kulígin_ (_singing_). + + “In darkness shrouded are the skies,-- + To rest themselves all close their eyes.” + +(_noticing Kabanóv_). Good-evening, sir! Which way are you bound? + +_Kabanóv._ Home. Good friend, have you heard what has happened with us? +Our whole family is upset. + +_Kulígin._ Yes, I have heard so, sir. + +_Kabanóv._ I have been away to Moscow, you know. Mamma kept giving me +all kinds of instructions for my journey, but no sooner I got away, than +I began having a good time. I was so happy to be free. I drank all the +way up, and I kept on drinking in Moscow. I just went on a spree to last +me for a whole year! Not even once did I stop to think of home, and if I +did, I never should have dreamed what has happened here. You have heard +about it? + +_Kulígin._ Yes, I have, sir. + +_Kabanóv._ My friend, I am a miserable man now! I am ruined just for +nothing, for no cause at all. + +_Kulígin._ Your mother is rather harsh. + +_Kabanóv._ That ’s so. She is the cause of it all. Do tell me, why +should I suffer for it? I just stopped at Dikóy’s,--well, we took a +drink together; I thought it might make me feel easier, but no, Kulígin, +it ’s worse! See, how my wife has treated me! It could not be worse---- + +_Kulígin._ It ’s a mixed-up affair, sir. It is hard to judge between +you. + +_Kabanóv._ No, don’t say that. What can there be worse? It is not enough +to kill her for that. Mamma says she ought be buried alive for a +punishment! But I love her, and it makes me feel bad to lay a finger +upon her. I did give her some blows, but mamma told me to do so. You +must understand, Kulígin, that I feel sorry for her. Mamma torments her +to death, and she walks around like a shadow and does not say a word. +She does nothing but weep, and she is melting away like wax. And I worry +myself to death, as I look at her. + +_Kulígin._ Could you not, sir, make up with her? You ought to forgive +her, and never mention the affair again. I suppose you yourself are not +without sin! + +_Kabanóv._ Of course not! + +_Kulígin._ Only you must not reproach her when you are drunk! She would +make you a good wife, sir, I am sure, better than any other. + +_Kabanóv._ Don’t you see, Kulígin, it is all right with me, but +mamma--there is no getting along with her!---- + +_Kulígin._ It is time, sir, to live by your own wits. + +_Kabanóv._ Well, what am I to do,--to tear myself to pieces? They say, I +have no sense of my own, and so I have to live by other people’s sense. +I tell you, I ’ll drink away whatever little sense I have left, let +mamma then bother with me as with a senseless fool. + +_Kulígin._ It is bad, sir! Well, and Borís Grigórevich, what about him? + +_Kabanóv._ They are sending that scoundrel to Kyákhta, into China. His +uncle is sending him to the office of a merchant whom he knows there. He +is going there for three years. + +_Kulígin._ Well, what does he do, sir? + +_Kabanóv._ He is suffering, too: he weeps. We fell upon him, his uncle +and I, and we kept scolding him, but he did not say a word. He acts like +a wild man. “Do with me what you please,” says he, “only do not torment +her!” He is pitying her too. + +_Kulígin._ He is a good man, sir. + +_Kabanóv._ He is ready for the journey, and the horses are waiting. He +is pining for her dreadfully. He wants to say good-bye to her, I see. +What do I care? He has done enough harm. He is my enemy, you know, +Kulígin! He ought to be quartered, so that he might know---- + +_Kulígin._ We must forgive our enemies, sir! + +_Kabanóv._ Go and talk to mamma about that, and see what she will tell +you. Yes, friend Kulígin, all our family is now broken up. They are +acting not like relatives to each other, but like enemies. Mamma has +been nagging Várvara so long; she could stand it no longer, and so she +just got up, and ran away. + +_Kulígin._ Where has she gone? + +_Kabanóv._ Who knows? They say she has run away with Vánka Kudryásh, and +he can’t be found anywhere either. Now, Kulígin, I must tell you that is +all mamma’s doing: she has been tormenting her, and locking her up. +“Don’t lock me up,” she said, “or it will be only worse!” And just so it +has happened. Do tell me, what I am to do now! Do instruct me how to +live now! I loathe the house, I am ashamed to meet people, and if I try +to work, my hands drop helpless. Here I am going home, but it is not to +find pleasure there. (_Enter Glásha._) + +_Glásha._ Tíkhon Iványch! + +_Kabanóv._ What is it now? + +_Glásha._ Things have gone wrong at home, sir! + +_Kabanóv._ Lord! There has been enough trouble! Speak, what is it? + +_Glásha._ Your good wife---- + +_Kabanóv._ Well, what? Is she dead? + +_Glásha._ No, sir, she has gone off, and we can’t find her anywhere. We +have run our legs off, trying to find her. + +_Kabanóv._ Kulígin! We must look for her. Do you know, friend, what I am +afraid of? That in her wretchedness she may lay hands upon herself! It +is just terrible, how she is grieving! It makes my heart burst to look +at her. (_To Glásha._) That is the way you have watched her. Is it long +she has been gone? + +_Glásha._ Not very long, sir! It is our fault, we did not watch her +better. However, one can’t be watching every minute. + +_Kabanóv._ Well, what are you standing for? Go, run! (_Exit Glásha._) +Let us go, too, Kulígin! (_Exeunt. The stage is empty for a little +while. From the opposite side enters Katerína, and slowly walks across +the stage._) + + + SCENE 2. KATERÍNA ALONE. (_During the whole monologue and the + following scenes she speaks slowly and repeats words, as if in + thought and in a state of forgetfulness._) + +_Katerína._ No, he is nowhere! What is he doing now,--the poor fellow? +If I only could bid him good-bye, and then--and then I do not mind +dying. Why did I lead him into misfortune? I am no better off for that! +I alone ought to suffer! As it is, I have ruined myself, and I have +ruined him: to me--dishonour, to him--eternal remorse! Yes, to +me--dishonour, to him--eternal remorse. (_Silence._) If I only could +think what he said to me? How he pitied me? What were the words he said? +(_Clasps her head._) I can’t remember them, I have forgotten everything. +The nights, the nights weigh heavily upon me! All lie down to sleep, I +too. All feel well, but I feel as if I were going into the grave. It is +so terrible in the dark! I hear a noise and singing, as if they were +burying someone, only so soft, and barely heard, far, far from me---- +How glad one is when daylight comes! But I do not like to get up,--the +same people again, the same talks, the same torment. Why do they look +that way at me? Why don’t they kill nowadays? Why have they changed it? +They say, they used to kill. If they took and threw me into the Vólga, I +should be happy. “If we kill you,” they say, “your sin will be taken +from you; so live and be tormented for your sin.” I have suffered +enough! How much longer shall I suffer? What am I to live for now, yes, +what for? I want nothing,--nothing gives me pleasure, God’s world gives +me no pleasure! But death does not come. You call for it, but it does +not come. Whatever I see, whatever I hear, causes me pain here (_points +to her heart_). If I could live with him, maybe there would be some +pleasure yet for me. Well, what difference does it make? I have lost my +soul anyway. How I long for him! Oh, how I long for him! If I cannot see +you, hear me at least from far away! Boisterous winds, bear my grief to +him! O Lord, I am weary, I am weary! (_Walks to the river bank and cries +at the top of her voice_:) My joy, my soul, my life, I love you! Answer! +(_Weeps. Enter Borís._) + + + SCENE 3. KATERÍNA AND BORÍS + +_Borís_ (_not seeing Katerína_). O Lord! That is her voice! Where is +she? (_Looks round._) + +_Katerína_ (_runs up to him and falls on his neck_). At last I see you +again! (_Weeps on his breast. Silence._) + +_Borís._ Well, God has granted us to weep together. + +_Katerína._ You have not forgotten me? + +_Borís._ How can you speak of forgetting? + +_Katerína._ Oh, no, it was not that, not that! You are not angry? + +_Borís._ Angry for what? + +_Katerína._ Forgive me! I did not mean to do you any harm: I was not +free myself. I did not know what I said, and what I did. + +_Borís._ Don’t speak of it! Don’t! + +_Katerína._ Well, how is it with you? What are you going to do? + +_Borís._ I am going away. + +_Katerína._ Where are you going? + +_Borís._ Far away, Kátya, to Siberia. + +_Katerína._ Take me away from here. + +_Borís._ I can’t, Kátya. I am not going of my own will: my uncle is +sending me off, and the horses are waiting already. My uncle gave me but +a minute to be away; I wanted to bid farewell to the place where we used +to see each other. + +_Katerína._ God speed you! Do not grieve over me. At first, I suppose, +you, poor fellow, will pine for me, but you will soon forget me. + +_Borís._ Let us not talk of me! I am a free bird! But how will it be +with you? What of your mother-in-law? + +_Katerína._ She torments me, she locks me up. She tells everybody, and +my husband too: “Do not trust her, she is sly!” They follow me all day +and laugh at me before my eyes. At every word they reproach me with you. + +_Borís._ And your husband? + +_Katerína._ He is now kind, and now angry, but he is drinking all the +time. I loathe him, I loathe him; I loathe his kindness worse than his +blows. + +_Borís._ It is hard for you, Kátya. + +_Katerína._ Yes, so hard, so hard, that death would be easier! + +_Borís._ Who could have told that we would have to suffer so for our +love? It would have been better if I had run away then. + +_Katerína._ It was for misfortune that I saw you. I have seen little +joy, but oh, how much sorrow! And how much there is still ahead of me! +Well, what use is there to think of what will be? I am seeing you now, +and that they will not take away from me! I need nothing else. All I +wanted was to see you. Now I feel much more at ease: as though a +mountain had rolled off my shoulders. And there, I thought that you were +angry with me, that you cursed me---- + +_Borís._ How could you? How could you? + +_Katerína._ No, it is not that I mean. I wanted to say something else. I +was longing for you, that is it; and now, I have seen you---- + +_Borís._ If they should find us here! + +_Katerína._ Wait, wait! I wanted to tell you something! I have forgotten +again! Something important I had to tell you! my head is in a whirl, I +can’t remember anything. + +_Borís._ It is time for me to go, Kátya! + +_Katerína._ Wait, wait! + +_Borís._ Well, what was it you wanted to say? + +_Katerína._ I will tell you right away. (_Thinking a moment._) Yes! As +you will travel on the road, don’t let any beggar go by without giving +him something, and tell them to pray for my sinful soul. + +_Borís._ Ah, if these people knew how hard it is for me to leave you! +God grant they may some day feel as bad as I do now! Good-bye, Kátya! +(_Embraces her and is about to go._) Rascals! Monsters! If I only had +the power! + +_Katerína._ Wait, wait! Let me take a last look at you! (_Looks into his +eyes._) That will do me! Now, God be with you! Go, go quickly! + +_Borís_ (_walks a few steps and stops_). Kátya, something is wrong! You +have something in your mind! I shall worry on my journey, thinking of +you! + +_Katerína._ No, no! God speed you! (_Borís is about to walk up to her._) +Don’t, don’t, that is enough! + +_Borís_ (_sobbing_). Well, God be with you! I must pray to God that she +may die soon, that she may not suffer long! Farewell! (_Greets her._) + +_Katerína._ Farewell! (_Exit Borís. Katerína follows him with her eyes +and stands a while, lost in thought._) + + + SCENE 4. KATERÍNA (_alone_) + +Where shall I go now? Home? No, I might as well go into the grave. +What--home, what--grave? It is better in the grave---- A little grave +under a tree--how nice!---- The sun warms it, the rain waters it--in the +spring the grass, the soft grass will grow up--the birds will fly to +that tree, they will sing, and will bring up their little ones, the +flowers will bloom: yellow, red, blue, all kinds of flowers (_in +thought_), all kinds of flowers---- How quiet! how nice! I almost feel +better! I do not wish even to think of life! To live again? No, no, I do +not wish it--it is not good! I loathe the people, I loathe the house, I +loathe the walls! I will not go there! No, no, I will not! If I go to +them, they will come and talk to me, and what is that to me? Ah, it is +dark! And they are singing somewhere! What are they singing? I cannot +make it out---- Oh, if I could die now---- What are they singing? It is +all the same whether death will come to me, or I myself--no, I cannot +live! It is a sin! They will not pray for me? He who loves me, will +pray---- They cross the hands over the breast--in the coffin! Yes, it is +so--I remember. And if they catch me, they will take me home by +force---- Ah, quickly, quickly! (_Goes to the river bank. Aloud._) My +friend! My joy! Farewell! (_Exit. Enter Mrs. Kabanóv, Kabanóv, Kulígin, +and a workman with a lantern._) + + + SCENE 5. MRS. KABANÓV, KABANÓV, AND KULÍGIN + +_Kulígin._ They say, they saw her here. + +_Kabanóv._ Is it certain? + +_Kulígin._ They certainly saw her. + +_Kabanóv._ Thank the Lord they saw her alive. + +_Mrs. Kabanóv._ And you have been frightened and crying! And for whom? +Don’t fret: she will give us plenty of trouble yet. + +_Kabanóv._ Who would have thought that she would come here! It is such a +public place. Who would ever think of hiding here. + +_Mrs. Kabanóv._ You see for yourself what she is doing. The creature she +is! She wants to keep up her character! (_People come from all sides +with lanterns._) + +_One of the Crowd._ Well, have you found her? + +_Mrs. Kabanóv._ Why, no. She is vanished. + +_A Few Voices._ I declare! That is strange! Where could she hide? + +_One of the Crowd._ She will be found! + +_Another._ Of course, she will be! + +_A Third._ She will come herself, I think. (_A voice behind the scene_: +“Hoa there, a boat!”) + +_Kulígin_ (_from the river bank_). Who is calling? What is up? (_Voice_: +“A woman has thrown herself in the water!” _Kulígin and several men +after him run out._) + + + SCENE 6. THE SAME WITHOUT KULÍGIN + +_Kabanóv._ O God, it is she! (_Wants to run off. Mrs. Kabanóv holds him +back._) Mamma, let me go, I must! I will save her! or I will +myself--what is the use of living without her! + +_Mrs. Kabanóv._ I will not let you, indeed not! Kill yourself for her +sake!--is she worth it? She has brought enough disgrace on us without +this! + +_Kabanóv._ Let me! + +_Mrs. Kabanóv._ They ’ll save her without you. I ’ll curse you if you +go. + +_Kabanóv_ (_falling on his knees_). Just to look at her! + +_Mrs. Kabanóv._ You will look at her when they have pulled her out. + +_Kabanóv_ (_rises. To the crowd._) Well, friends, did you see anything? + +_First._ It is dark down there, you can’t see anything. (_A noise behind +the scene._) + +_Second._ They are calling there, but I can’t make out what. + +_First._ That is Kulígin’s voice. + +_Second._ They are walking along the bank with a lantern. + +_First._ They are coming this way. They are carrying her. (_A few people +are returning._) + +_One of the Returning Men._ Kulígin is a fine fellow! Here close by, in +the whirlpool, by the shore: with the fire we could see a distance off +in the water, and he saw her dress, and pulled her out. + +_Kabanóv._ Is she alive? + +_Another Man._ Alive? Why, she leaped high: the bank is steep here, and +she must have fallen on an anchor, the poor woman is bruised! And yet, +my friends, she looks as though alive! Only on the temple there is a +small wound, and only one small drop of blood. (_Kabanóv starts to run, +and meets Kulígin with the people carrying Katerína._) + + + SCENE 7. THE SAME AND KULÍGIN + +_Kulígin._ Here is your Katerína. Do with her what you please! Her body +is here, take it; but her soul is not yours now: she is now before the +Judge who is more merciful than you! (_Puts her on the ground and runs +away._) + +_Kabanóv_ (_rushes to Katerína_). Kátya! Kátya! + +_Mrs. Kabanóv._ Enough! It is a sin even to weep for her! + +_Kabanóv._ Mamma, you have killed her! You! You! + +_Mrs. Kabanóv._ How dare you? Are you forgetting yourself? Do you know +to whom you are speaking? + +_Kabanóv._ You have killed her! You! You! + +_Mrs. Kabanóv._ I ’ll talk to you at home. (_Bowing low to the people._) +I thank you, good people, for your services! (_All bow._) + +_Kabanóv._ It is well with you, Kátya! But why am I left in this world +to suffer! (_Falls on his wife’s body._) + + + + + Mikhaíl Evgráfovich Saltykóv. (pseud. Shchedrín). (1826-1889.) + + + Saltykóv was descended from an ancient noble family. He received his + first education at home, at ten years of age entered the Moscow + Institute for Sons of Noblemen, and two years later was chosen, on + account of his excellent progress, to be sent to the Lyceum at + Tsárskoe-Seló. In that school the memory of its distinguished alumnus, + Púshkin, was still fresh, and it was expected that there should be a + continuator of the great poet in every class. Thus Saltykóv wrote his + first poem in 1841, but he soon abandoned poetry for satire. After + leaving the Lyceum, Saltykóv threw himself into the whirlpool of + pleasures, even in this emulating the older generation. In 1847 + appeared his first story. The following year he wrote _A Mixed + Affair_, which, like his previous effort, was quite weak and + insignificant, but as it happened to have made its appearance in the + critical year 1848, when the censorship was unusually severe, he was + suspected of evil purposes and was banished to the Government of + Vyátka. He there remained eight years, but served with distinction + under the Governor and rose to various posts of eminence. Upon his + return from exile he published his _Provincial Sketches_, in which he + gave some gloomy pictures of provincial oppression and dishonesty. + Saltykóv created a special language for his satires, which, on account + of the endless allusions and masterly word-creations, are the despair + of the translator and have made his admirable works less known abroad + than they deserve to be. In his long literary career Saltykóv has + adapted himself to the conditions of the time, and thus his satires + give a continuous record of the reverse of Russian life for upwards of + forty years. Among his best works are _Pompadours and Pompadouresses_, + _The Tashkentians_, _Refuge Monrepos_, _Diary of a Provincial at St. + Petersburg_, and his famous _The Golovlévs_, which enjoys a reputation + like Gógol’s _Dead Souls_. + + In English translation are to be found: _Tchinovniks_, _Sketches of + Provincial Life_, from the memoirs of the retired Conseiller de Cour + Stchedrin (Saltikow), translated with notes from the Russian by F. + Aston, London, 1861; _The Recollections of Onésime Chenapan_, _The + Self-Sacrificing Rabbit_, and _The Eagle as Mecænas_, in _The Humour + of Russia_, by E. L. Voynich, London and New York, 1895; in Free + Russia were given _The Fool_, in vol. i., No. 5, _The Deceitful Editor + and the Credulous Reader_, in vol. i., No. 9, _Story of how One + Peasant Saved Two Generals_, in vol. ii., No. 6, and _Misha and + Vania_, in vol. iii., Nos. 6 and 7. + + + FROM “BEYOND THE BORDER” + +Having grown tired of my fruitless sojourn in the world of concrete +facts, I self-confidently attempted to fly as a steel-grey eagle into +the sphere of abstractions. In my younger days I took such flights quite +often. Together with my other companions I liked to pamper myself with +excursions into that region where one is supposed to get “revelations of +invisible things,” and, I remember, these excursions were a source of +great pleasure to me. I cannot say I saw that region clearly defined, +but, in any case, the contemplation of it evoked in me no fear, but a +decidedly pleasurable sensation. In general, we then lived with more +vigour (of course, I have in view only myself and my contemporaries), +though I must confess our basal fund of life was impaired by +inconsistencies that bordered on frivolities. Two lives went side by +side: one, so to say, _pro domo_, the other for the fear of the Jews, +that is, in the manner of a justificatory document to the authorities. + +You are sitting at home and with your whole being, so to say, have +transferred yourself into the sphere of the “revelation of invisible +things.” Suddenly, the fateful hour strikes,--run to your bureau! You +don your trowsers and your office uniform, and fifteen minutes later you +are in an entirely different sphere, in the sphere of the “confirmation +of visible things.” Of course, the questions in the two places are quite +different. In the first sphere the question is whether the golden age is +to be sought behind or before us; in the second the question is the +establishment of golden ages by means of provincial government offices +and departments of charity, on the basis of explicit statutory +enactments anent this subject. You stay there a while, scratch your pen, +and behold! again strikes the fateful hour. You run home again, change +your trowsers, put on a coat or a smoking-jacket, and you transport +yourself once more into the sphere of the “revelation of invisible +things.” Thus our youth passed---- + +The present generation will, no doubt, regard this running from one +sphere into another as not very consistent, but in those days we managed +to unite them, and we felt no awkwardness. And now, after many, many +years, passing in accidental solitude, the stream of my youth has +suddenly burst upon me. Come, thought I, I will run, as in olden days. +However, I did not get as far as running, for, though my youthful +recollections streamed upon me with vim, I had to convince myself that +my legs were not what they used to be, and that the blood in my veins +was no longer the same. And then, the questions that these recollections +brought back--really, I do not know what to call them. Some, who are +more lenient, call them untimely, while others, who are unquestionably +evil-minded, blankly call them harmful---- Well, you may judge for +yourself. + +The first question: “Does history console?” Some forty years ago--I am +quite sure of it--I should in all truth have answered: “Yes, it +consoles.” But what shall I say now? To tell the truth, I have even +forgotten how to think by principles, without prefatory admixtures. I +begin with the tenebrousness of Time, and no sooner does light begin to +glimmer than I strike river Pinéga with Vilyúy, or some statute of +abatement, and there I stick fast. Precisely that has happened now. +Barely had the question peeped at me, and barely had I proceeded to +dismember it, when God knows whence bobbed up Major-General Terrible and +so flashed his eyes at me that I was completely stunned. “No, I had +better to-morrow--” I confusedly said to myself, and I that very moment +hastened to duck so that my ears might not be seen. + +The second question: “Can one live with the people, and depend upon +them?” Forty years ago I certainly should have answered: “One not only +can, but it is not possible to live otherwise.” Now---- No sooner do I +begin to expatiate and prove “from principle” that human activity +outside of the sphere of the people is objectless and senseless, than +the hide of my whole being begins to shudder. There stare at me those +fellows of Hunting Row,[22] those colabourers of Hay Market, and, at +last, a whole mass of temporising rascals, _à la_ Napoleon III., who, +too, had proclaimed: _tout pour le peuple et par le peuple_---- Of +course, the conclusion was that I had better to-morrow---- + +The third question: “Is it possible to lead a life in which you are +supposed to eat mushroom pie exclusively that you may restrain your +tongue behind your teeth?” Forty years ago I, no doubt, should have +answered again: “No, it is not possible to live that way.” And +now?--Now: “No, I had better to-morrow----” + +In short, I attempted to give answers to a whole stack of questions, but +alas! neither concreteness, nor abstraction,--nothing awakened impotent +thought. I struggled for quite a while, and I came very near calling +out: “Vódka!” but fortunately that drink is not so accessible in Paris +as to console one at will. + +So I lay me down to sleep, having carried away from my two-days’ blues +the truth that under certain conditions of life a spree must be +considered not so much from the standpoint of a vitiated will as in the +sense of an irrepressible necessity of a grieving soul---- I had a +disturbed, painful dream. At first there hovered before me some +incoherent fragments, but by degrees they formed themselves into +something connected, there was a whole colloquy, the heroine of which +was--a swine! However, this colloquy is so interesting that I do not +regard it nugatory to share it with my readers in the form in which my +memory has preserved it. + + + THE TRIUMPHANT SWINE, OR THE CONVERSATION OF THE SWINE WITH TRUTH--AN + INTERRUPTED SCENE + + + DRAMATIS PERSONÆ + + SWINE, _stall-fed beast; his bristles have become glossy and shining + as the result of uninterrupted contact with the stable mire_. + + TRUTH, _a person that, by rights, is supposed to be eternally young, + but in reality is badly knocked up. By order of the authorities she + is covered with rags, through which glints her full classical + uniform_, i. e., _nakedness_. + + _The action takes place in the stable._ + +_Swine_ (_screwing up his face_). Is it true what they say, that the sun +is shining in the sky? + +_Truth._ Yes, Swine. + +_Swine._ Really? I have never seen any of your suns here in the stable +where I live. + +_Truth._ That ’s so, Swine, because when Nature was creating you, she +kept on saying: ’T is not for you, O Swine, to see the bright sun! + +_Swine._ You don’t say! (_Authoritatively._) In my opinion, all these +suns of yours are rank heresy--eh? + +(_Truth, silent and embarrassed, arranges her rags. In the audience are +heard voices: “You are right, Swine! Heresy! Heresy!”_) + +_Swine_ (_continues to grimace_). Is it so?--I have heard that they say +in papers that liberty is the most precious possession of human society? + +_Truth._ Yes, Swine. + +_Swine._ In my opinion, we are surfeited with liberty. Here, I have been +living without intermission in this stable, and I have no worry! What +more do I want? If I take a notion, I stick my snout in the trough, or +rummage the manure----what more liberty do I want? (_Authoritatively._) +You are all traitors, as I look at you--eh? + +(_Truth again tries to conceal her nakedness. The audience shouts: “You +are right, Swine! Traitors! Traitors!” Some of the audience demand that +Truth shall be taken to the police station. The swine grunts with +self-satisfaction, seeing himself equal to the situation._) + +_Swine._ What ’s the use, taking Truth to the station? They ’ll only +keep her there for appearances, and then they ’ll let her out again. +(_Lies down in the manure, and falls into sentimentality._) Oh, nowadays +those police people speak the same language as the feuilleton writers! A +few days ago I read in a paper that the cause of our weakness is that +our laws are only written for appearances---- + +_Truth._ So you read, Swine? + +_Swine._ Now and then. Only I do not take it in as it is written---- I +understand it as I please---- (_To the audience._) So, as I say, my +friends! We will not send her to the police station, we ’ll get at her +in our own way---- To-day we ’ll put one little question to her, and +to-morrow--two---- (_Meditating._) We won’t get away with her at +once,--we ’ll just chaw her by degrees---- (_Panting, approaches Truth, +grabs her by her calf, and begins to bite her._) That ’s the way! + +(_Truth shrinks with pain; the audience yells. Shouts are heard: “You +are a brick, Swine! You are a good one!”_) + +_Swine._ What? You like it? Well, that ’ll be enough for this time! +(_Stops chawing._) Now, tell me, where is the root of evil? + +_Truth_ (_confused_). The root of evil, Swine? The root of evil--the +root of evil--is (_with decision, and unexpectedly to herself_) in you, +Swine! + +_Swine_ (_furious_). Ah, that ’s the way you talk! Now, look out! Did +n’t you say that universal truth was incomparably superior to +police-truth? + +_Truth_ (_trying to avoid a direct answer_). Though under certain +conditions of life, one cannot deny---- + +_Swine._ Stop wagging your tail! We have heard of those ifs and buts +before! Talk straight! Is there in your opinion a certain special truth +that is superior to police-truth? + +_Truth._ O Swine, how treacherously mean---- + +_Swine._ Very well, we ’ll talk later about that. (_Treading with +heavier step._) Go ahead! Is it true you have said that the laws must +protect all alike, for, say you, otherwise human society would change +into a chaotic mass of warring elements? What kind of laws have you been +talking about? What was the cause, madam, of your glibness, and at whose +door did you wish to place it--eh? + +_Truth._ Ah, Swine! + +_Swine._ Swine me no swine to my snout! I know without you that I am a +swine. I am a swine, and you are Truth---- (_The swine’s grunting sounds +like irony._) Go, Swine, make for Truth! (_Begins to chaw. To the +audience._) Fine, is n’t it? + +(_Truth shudders with pain. The audience goes into convulsions. On all +sides is heard: “Fine! Give it to her, Swine! Give it to her! Go for +her! Chaw her! Look at that impudent one; she dares have anything to +say!”_) + + ──────────────────────────────────── + +The colloquy was interrupted here. I could not make out anything else, +because there was raised such a hubbub in the stable that I could only +dimly catch the sounds: “Is it true that in the university----” “Is it +true that in the female colleges----” In a twinkling of the eye Truth +was enmeshed in a whole net of stupidly treacherous deceit, and every +attempt at disentangling from that net was met by the swine’s chawing +and the thunder of the crowd: “Friends, let us judge her with the +people’s judgment!” + +I lay like one fettered, expecting any moment to be chawed up myself. I, +who had all my life been repeating in frivolous self-confidence: “God +won’t permit it, the swine won’t eat me!”--suddenly yelled out at the +top of my voice: “The swine will eat me up! He will!” + +That very moment a loud rap at the door made me wake up. + + [22] Poultry and game market. + + + + + Dmítri Ivánovich Písarev. (1841-1868.) + + + Písarev was the son of wealthy gentlefolk who gave him a very careful + training at home, so that at the age of four he spoke fluently three + languages, at the age of eleven entered an advanced class of the + Gymnasium, graduating with a gold medal, and at sixteen years was by + especial permission admitted to the university. While there, he + contributed some reviews for periodicals and wrote an elaborate + dissertation on Apollonius of Tyana. In 1862 he was arrested for + having furnished a secret printing establishment with an article on + Herzen, and was kept for four years in prison. Here he composed his + essays for which he is known. He taught a philosophic sensualism and + denied the value of art, and with it of poetry for art’s sake,--in + short, he stood on the standpoint of Bazárov in Turgénev’s _Fathers + and Sons_. He thus represented the reaction of the early sixties + against the opportunism of the previous decade. In his _Flowers of + Harmless Humour_ he made an attack against the satirist Shchedrín, + whom he advised to abandon his literary labours for the popularisation + of the sciences. He died by accidental drowning. + + + FLOWERS OF HARMLESS HUMOUR + +Poets fare badly in our days. Their credit is rapidly sinking. Unfeeling +critics and soulless scoffers are breaking down the public’s respect for +the great mysteries of the unconscious creative power. Formerly they +used to talk of a poet’s inspiration; formerly a poet was thought to be +a favourite of the gods and an intimate of the Muses. Though these +mythological metaphors were not supposed to be interpreted in a literal +sense, yet under these metaphors one continually felt something good and +mysterious, something intangible and inapproachable, something that must +for ever remain inaccessible to us, poor clodhoppers. Fellows of our +kind were permitted to learn something about it only from the indistinct +accounts of the artists who “like gods have access to the Olympian +halls,” where they are shown very interesting and frequently very +immodest scenes. + +Now all that has changed. Brother clodhopper has gathered an enormous +force, and he undertakes to discuss everything. He does not acknowledge +any inspiration, does not hanker for any Olympian halls, in spite of the +fact that the poet gives a detailed account how a certain artist was +once shown in these halls “a white nape’s curvedness” in “eternal +ideals,” and things in general which “divinity discloses to mortals in +paltry doles” (A. Máykov). Our brother clodhopper denies all that with +his innate coarseness of feeling and boldness of expression. Those are +all flowers of fancy, he says, but you had better tell us: What mental +power does the poet possess? Is his development broad, and his culture +thorough? + +What questions these are! Are they pertinent? Are they refined? Is it +permissible to summon a favourite of the gods and to question him like a +guilty high-school boy? If it at all has come to such unheard of +questions, if faith has been lost in divine inspiration, if the +periodicals find it more interesting to have their correspondents in +Paris or London, in Sarátov or Irkútsk, rather than upon Parnassus or in +the Olympian halls,--then, of course, there is nothing left for the +peaceable poet to do but to hang his darling lyre on a nail, and to +enter the Government service or turn to the sombre occupations of +agriculture. If it keeps on in that way, there will at last come a +dramatic moment, when the last poet will embrace the last esthetician +and, sobbing, will say to him: + +“My friend, we are alone. The world has turned sour and is decaying. The +microscope and the scalpel give us no rest. If we do not conceal +ourselves or do not turn naturalists, they will put us alive into +spirits, in order to preserve complete the last specimens of an extinct +species that had remarkable external resemblances to man. My friend, +when we die, the last gate that leads to the Olympian dwellings will be +nailed up and securely hidden from view, not by bricks, but by a heap of +all the unsold copies of my poems and all the uncut sheets of your +critical essays.” + +“Well,” will say the esthetician, “if it is so, then all is ended. The +gate will for ever remain inaccessible! No man will ever climb, no +animal will ever jump over my critiques and your poesy.” And, clasping +each other in a tight embrace, as people embrace on the grave of +everything that is dear to them, our last Mohicans will start on a run +to the shop to buy themselves a microscope and chemical retorts, as +appurtenances of a masquerade that is to save them from an untimely and +involuntary descent into spirits. The history of the regenerated +specimens of the extinct species will end by the esthetician’s and +poet’s marriage, _à la face du soleil et de la nature_, to two girls who +are medical practitioners and who in times of yore used to completely +upset their present admirers by their incomprehensibly solid education, +their indecently firm manner of thinking, and their complete absence of +feminine grace, that is, weakness, silliness, and affectation. The +children of these two happy pairs will get to hear some dim references +to estheticians and poets, but their grandchildren will never hear that. +Both species will become entirely unknown, as are unknown to us many +slugs of the primeval world, that have left neither bones, nor shells, +nor any other traces of their mundane existence. + +From many separate features that are scattered in my prophetic +improvisation, the reader may notice that its realisation belongs to a +very distant future. In all likelihood the great-great-grandfathers and +the great-great-grandmothers of the last esthetician and the last poet +are at the present moment not yet in the wombs of their mothers; yet, in +spite of the remoteness of the decisive catastrophe, there are evil +omens of it even in our own time---- There are very many literary +parasites, but out of the murky and miserable crowd of the intellectual +proletariat rise only those who know how to acquire a flexible and +variegated form of expression. These brilliant parasites carry form to a +truly incredible perfection. They produce in their language the same +kind of wonderful roulades that Kóntski does on the violin or Rubinstein +on the piano. If this virtuosity is acquired by habit and practice, it, +naturally, behooves to make use of it: it is a capital from which one +must derive interest. And all the simple-minded reader has to do, is to +roll his eyes and take in the wonder! One is present at the creation of +a world in miniature: everything is made out of nothing; emptiness is +made to appear as fulness, and it is made to appear fulness so naturally +that one has only to shrug his shoulders: “Yes, he is an artist, a +painter, a professor of white magic, a Bosco, and even a Mikháyla +Vasílevich!” Of course, the public says “Ah!” and goes into ecstasies, +and how can it help going into ecstasies, when the miracles are produced +right before its eyes! + +When the parasite begins to receive interest from his capital, he simply +and definitely creates, in order to apply his technical skill to +something. He has no prompting to tell society any ideas; he has no +feeling that is persistently seeking to come out and manifest itself; he +does not at all wish to act consciously upon the development of society +in one direction or another; he is not a thinker, not a social factor, +and not a poet in the higher and now forgotten sense of the word. He is +a master workman of articles, novels, or verses, and, being a sensible +artisan, he does not wish his skill to be lost in vain. Why should he +sit with folded hands, having learned a trade? Why should he not start +out on the hunt of roubles and laurel wreaths, as long as there are good +people who lavish both in fair abundance? + +His reasoning is faultless, and this reasoning leads straightway to the +complete triumph and unlimited domination of pure art. Some people write +because their being boils over with the impassioned work of mind and +feelings. It is evident that their mind and feelings, being abroad +because of the creative process, are roused by impressions that are +independent of that process. + +Others write in order to act upon society. The aim of their activity is +independent of the process, as we see in Byelínski, Dobrolyúbov, and the +author of _What is to be Done?_[23] + +Others again write because they have learned to write and because they +can write without the least labour, just as a nightingale sings and a +rose exhales perfume. Their activity is causeless and aimless, that is, +they have a cause and an aim, but these can have no effect upon the +direction of the creative process. Suppose the versifier wants to have a +beaver collar sewn on to his warm overcoat. Here is a stimulating cause +for dipping his pen in the inkstand; however, he will, in all +probability, not write of beaver collars, but of the vicissitudes of +fate that affected three ancient sages,[24] or of the misfortunes of a +poor girl who died in the spring by the sounds of her father’s fiddle, +or of some other elevated and beautiful thing that has nothing in common +with the tempting display of the furrier next door. + +He has also an aim: the versifier wishes to sell his poem to a +periodical, to get for it as much as possible, and to receive on account +all they will give him. Yet Seneca, Lucan, and Lucius warmly discuss the +immortality of the soul, and not where he will get most, whether in the +“Contemporary” or the “Memoirs of the Fatherland.” And dying Mánya, in +her last moments, is interested in the spring leafage, instead of +disquieting herself with the ticklish question: I wonder whether they +will let me have fifty roubles in advance at the “Russian Word”? + +It is clear that cause and aim do not penetrate into the sanctuary of +creativeness. The sanctuary remains unpolluted, and people that pine for +a beaver collar and that dream of a tempting advance payment may be +recognised as high priests of pure art. The question will, naturally, +not be changed if instead of a beaver collar I should put a craving for +literary glory, and instead of an advance payment of fifty +roubles--applauses at public readings. The priest of pure art will in +either case remain true to his vocation, and in either case he will +remain a magnificent specimen of the genus parasite. + +If it is not quite clear to the readers why our lyric poets, who +represent a complete absence of ideas, may be included in the list of +parasites that despoil the ideas of others, I will at once set them +aright. Our lyric poets feed their destitution on the tiniest grains of +thought and feelings that are the common possession of all men, stupid +and wise, cultured and uncultured, honest and dishonest. Every man has +some kind of a feeling when he looks at a pretty woman, and everybody +knows that sensation and understands that it is known to others also, +and that, consequently, it is useless and uninteresting to tell others +about it. But the lyricists live, like the humming-birds, on flower +dust; they have turned this trifling and well-known sentiment to their +advantage and have begun to elicit an income from it, thanks to their +ability to create something out of nothing and to clothe the intangible +dust in thin-woven and variegated garments of iambics, chorees, +anapests, dactyls, and amphibrachs. + +The lyric poets, being tiny birds in the great family of parasites, +prosper on what everybody knows and none but the lyric poets can or wish +to make use of. Other larger parasites exploit in their favour not small +grains of feeling and germs of thought, but whole, big feelings and +whole, well-developed thoughts. These priests of pure art devour +remarkable theories and majestic world conceptions. There are among +these priests sparrows, and there are also elephants, and, as the +proverb says, the bigger the vessel, the better the sailing,--the +elephants, naturally, lay hold of the broadest and most daring world +conceptions. They discuss with another’s voice the most important and +the greatest questions of life; they perform their variations with so +much aplomb and with such overpowering thunder that the reader is +intimidated and reverentially bows his head before them. + +But the temple of pure art is open alike for all its real devotees, for +all the priests who have a pure heart and are innocent of independent +mental labour. Thanks to this circumstance, the reader, though he may +marvel and not believe his eyes, will see at the same altar, on the one +hand, our little lyric poet Fet, on the other, our great humorist +Shchedrín. + + [23] Chernyshévski, whose name was tabooed by the censors. + + [24] Máykov is meant; see p. 344. + + + + + Count Lev Nikoláevich Tolstóy. (1828-.) + + + Count Tolstóy was born in the estate of Yásnaya Polyána, in the + Government of Túla. In 1837 his family settled in Moscow, but his + father died soon after, and he returned to Yásnaya Polyána. In 1843 he + entered the university at Kazán, and in 1848 graduated from the + Faculty of Jurisprudence at St Petersburg. He again returned to his + estate, where he remained till 1851. He then enrolled in the army and + was stationed in the Caucasus, where he began his literary career with + his sketches, _Childhood_, _The Incursion_, _Boyhood_, _The Cossacks_. + He took part in the Crimean War, and during the campaign wrote his + stories about _Sebastopol_. After the war Tolstóy settled in St. + Petersburg, where he published a series of shorter stories. In these + his disenchantment with existing conditions is clearly perceptible. In + 1862 he married the daughter of Doctor Behrs, and went back to the + estate of Yásnaya Polyána. Here he devoted himself to the education of + the peasants and edited an educational periodical, _Yásnaya Polyána_, + in which he evolved his radical views. Soon after he assumed a + negative attitude to all progress, and has remained in it ever since. + From 1865 to 1869 appeared his great novel _War and Peace_. Then he + again returned to his pedagogical activity, and composed a large + number of short stories for the peasants. In 1875 began to appear his + other great novel, _Ánna Karénin_. At the same time he wrote his + _Confession_, and devoted himself to the composition of theological + tracts. His newly formulated theory of a return to common labour and + simplicity of life has found many followers who emulate the life of + their master under the name of Tolstoyists. + + The first novel of Tolstóy’s to be translated was _The Cossacks_, by + Eugene Schuyler, in 1878. Since then such a large number of + translations of most of his works have appeared that it is not + advisable to give them here; they may easily be found in late + publishers’ annuals. The following names figure as translators of + Tolstóy: A. Hulme Beaman, M. Cruger, E. J. Dillon, A. Delano, N. H. + Dole, H. Sutherland Edwards, Constance Garnett, G. B. Halsted, Isabel + Hapgood, Ch. Johnston, A. Loranger, Y. A. Ludwig, Louise Maude, W. + Aylmer Maude, Count Norraikow, C. Dopoff, S. Rapoport and J. + Kenworthy, V. Tchertkoff, W. M. Thompson, B. R. Tucker. + + + FROM “ÁNNA KARÉNIN” + +“Do you know, I have been thinking of you,” said Sergyéy Ivánovich. +“From what that doctor has told me, there are some awful things going on +in your county; the doctor is quite a clever fellow. I have been telling +you and I repeat it now: it is wrong for you not to go to the meetings +and altogether to keep away from all agrarian interests. If decent +people are going to withdraw from them, then, of course, everything will +go God knows how. We are paying out money; it all goes on salaries, and +we have no schools, no medical assistants, no midwives, no apothecary +shops, nothing.” + +“I have tried,” Levín answered softly and unwillingly, “but I can’t! +What ’s to be done?” + +“What is it that you can’t! I confess, I do not understand you. +Indifference and inability I do not admit; is it, then, simply +indolence?” + +“Neither the one, nor the other, nor the third. I have tried, and I see +that I can’t do anything,” said Levín. + +He did not pay much attention to what his brother was saying. As he +looked beyond the river at the field, he distinguished something black, +but he could not make out whether it was a horse or a clerk on +horseback. + +“Why can’t you do anything? You have made an attempt, and in your +opinion you did not succeed, so you have given it up. Have n’t you any +ambition?” + +“Ambition,” said Levín, touched to the quick by his brother’s words, “is +incomprehensible to me. If they had told me in the university that +others understand integral calculus, and that I do not, there would be a +case for ambition. But here one must be convinced first of all that one +must have a certain ability for that, and above all, that these affairs +are really important.” + +“Well, is n’t that important?” said Sergyéy Ivánovich, himself touched +to the quick because his brother regarded as unimportant that which +interested him, and because, evidently, he was not listening. + +“It does not seem important to me, and does not interest me, so what are +you going to do about that?” answered Levín, having in the meantime made +out that what he saw was really the clerk and that the clerk had, no +doubt, told the peasants to stop ploughing. They were turning over the +ploughs. “Is it possible, they have done the ploughing?” he thought. + +“But listen,” said his elder brother, with a frown on his beautiful, +intelligent face, “there are limits to everything. It ’s all very nice +to be an odd fellow, and a sincere man, and not to like deception,--I +understand all that; but what you are saying has either no sense, or a +very bad sense. How is it you find it unimportant that the people whom +you profess to love----” + +“I never professed,” thought Konstantín Levín. + +“Are dying without receiving any aid? Coarse midwives are killing the +children, and the people are steeped in ignorance and remain in the +power of every scribe, whereas you have the means at hand to correct all +that, and you do nothing, because in your opinion it is not important.” + +Sergyéy Ivánovich had placed a dilemma before him: “Either you are so +undeveloped that you cannot see all that you are able to do, or you do +not wish to sacrifice your quiet and your vainglory, or what not, in +order to do it.” + +Konstantín Levín felt that there was nothing left for him to do but +submit or confess an absence of love for the common weal. And this +offended and grieved him. + +“Both,” he spoke with decision; “I can’t see how one can----” + +“What? You can’t, by making proper use of money, give them medical +help?” + +“As far as I can see, it is impossible---- I see no possibility of +furnishing medical aid in all the places of the four thousand square +versts of our county, with our freshets, blizzards, and working season. +Besides, I have no faith in medicine.” + +“Come now, that is not just---- I can give you a thousand examples---- +Well, and schools?” + +“What are the schools for?” + +“You don’t mean that! Can there be any doubt of the use of education? If +it is good for you, it is also good for everybody else.” + +Konstantín Levín felt himself morally pushed to the wall, and so he +became excited and involuntarily expressed the main cause of his +indifference to the common good. + +“May be all that is good. But why should I bother about establishing +medical centres which I am not going to use, or schools to which I am +not going to send my children, to which even the peasants do not want to +send theirs, and I am not yet firmly convinced that they should?” said +he. + +This unexpected view of the affair for a moment startled Sergyéy +Ivánovich; but he at once thought out a new plan of attack. He kept +silent, pulled out one fishing-rod, threw it in at another place, and, +smiling, turned to his brother. + +“You will pardon me: in the first place, a medical centre is much +needed. There, we had to send for the county doctor to attend to Agáfya +Mikháylovna.” + +“Well, I think her hand will always stay crooked.” + +“That is an open question---- Then, a literate peasant will make a more +useful labourer.” + +“I don’t know, you may ask anybody you please,” answered Konstantín +Levín emphatically,--“literate peasants are much worse as labourers. You +can’t fix the roads with them; and if they have to build a bridge, they +’ll swipe the material.” + +“However,” frowningly said Sergyéy Ivánovich, who did not like +contradictions, especially such as continually jumped from one subject +to another and without connection adduced new proofs, so that it was +impossible to tell what to answer first, “however, that is not the +question. Let me ask you, do you acknowledge education to be a benefit +to the people?” + +“I do,” said Levín incautiously, and immediately was conscious that he +did not say what was in his mind. He felt that since he did acknowledge +it, the proof would be forthcoming that he was talking senseless bosh. +He did not know how that would be argued, but he was sure that the +logical deduction was forthcoming, and he waited for that proof. + +The argument was much simpler than Konstantín Levín had expected it. + +“If you acknowledge it to be beneficial,” said Sergyéy Ivánovich, “you, +as an honest man, can’t help loving this thing and sympathising with it, +and consequently you can’t help wishing to work for it.” + +“But I have not yet acknowledged this to be good,” said Konstantín +Levín, blushing. + +“What? You have just told me----” + +“That is, I do not acknowledge it to be good or possible.” + +“You can’t know that, not having made an effort.” + +“Well, granted,” said Levín, though he did not at all grant it, +“granted, it is so; I still can’t see, why I should bother about it.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Well, since we have gotten so far in our discussion, explain it to me +from the philosophical point of view,” said Levín. + +“I don’t understand what need there is here of philosophy,” said Sergyéy +Ivánovich, in a tone which sounded to Levín as if he did not acknowledge +his brother’s right to discuss philosophy. This irritated Levín. + +“It is this,” he said excitedly, “I think that the prime mover of all +our actions is, after all, our personal happiness. I, as a nobleman, see +at present nothing in the agrarian institutions by which my interests +are advanced. The roads are no better, and they can’t be better; my +horses take me just as easily over bad roads. I need no doctors and no +medical centres. I don’t want a justice of the peace,--I have never had +recourse to him, and I never will. I not only need no schools, but I +find them injurious, as I have told you. For me the agrarian +institutions mean only an obligation to pay eighteen kopeks per +desyatína, to travel to town, in order to pass the nights with bedbugs, +and to listen to all kinds of nonsense and commonplaces,--but my +personal interest in no way incites me.” + +“Wait a moment,” Sergyéy Ivánovich interrupted him, with a smile, “our +personal interest did not incite us to work for the liberation of the +peasants, yet we worked.” + +“No!” Konstantín interrupted him, getting ever more excited. “The +liberation of the peasants was an entirely different matter. There was a +personal interest connected with it. We wanted to get rid of the yoke +which was oppressing us, all the good people. But to be an alderman, to +discuss how many cleaners of privies are needed, and how the pipes are +to be laid in the town I am not living in,--to be a juryman and sit in +judgment over a peasant who has stolen a ham, and for six hours to +listen to all kinds of nonsense that is threshed out by the defence and +by the procurators, and the presiding judge asking my old peasant, +Aléshka the fool: ‘Do you, Mr. Defendant, plead guilty to +misappropriating the ham, eh?’” + +Konstantín Levín was getting away from the argument, and began to act +the presiding judge and Aléshka the fool; it seemed to him that it all +was pertinent to the discussion. + +But Sergyéy Ivánovich shrugged his shoulders. + +“Well, what is it you are up to?” + +“I want to say that I will always, with all my might, defend the rights +that touch me--my interest; that, when I was a student and the secret +police made a raid on us and read our letters, I was ready with all my +might to defend these rights, to defend my rights of culture and of +liberty. I can understand military duties that touch the fate of my +children, my brothers, and myself; I am ready to discuss what touches +me; but I do not understand, and do not want to understand, why I should +consider what to do with forty thousand roubles of the county money, or +why I should sit in judgment over Aléshka the fool.” + +Konstantín Levín spoke as if the dam of his words had broken loose. +Sergyéy Ivánovich smiled. + +“Suppose you will have a case at law to-morrow: well, would you prefer +to be judged in the old criminal court?” + +“I will not have a case in court. I will not cut anybody’s throat, and I +have no need to do so. By the way!” he continued, again jumping over to +an entirely irrelevant matter, “all our county institutions and such +things are very much like the birch saplings that we stick up, as on +Whitsun Monday, in order to make them look like a forest that has grown +up of its own accord in Europe; but I have not the heart to water these +birches, nor have I any faith in them.” + +Sergyéy Ivánovich only shrugged his shoulders, expressing by this motion +that he was at a loss to account for these birches in their discussion, +though he immediately saw what his brother had intended to say by them. + +“Really, that is not a way of discussing the matter,” he remarked. + +But Konstantín Levín was anxious to put himself right in regard to his +defect, of which he was conscious, that is, his indifference to the +common good, and he continued: + +“I think,” said Konstantín, “that no activity can be permanent if it is +not based on personal interest. This is a universal truth, a philosophic +truth,” said he, emphatically repeating the word “philosophic,” as if to +show that he, too, had a right, like anybody else, to talk of +philosophy. + +Sergyéy Ivánovich smiled again. “He has a philosophy of his own to suit +his inclinations,” thought he. + +“Well, you had better leave philosophy alone,” said he. “The main +problem of philosophy has been in all ages to discover the necessary +connection that exists between personal and common interests. But that +is not to the point; it behooves me to correct your comparison. The +birch saplings were not stuck up, but some were set out, and some were +planted, and one has to tend them carefully. Only those nations have a +future, only those nations may be called historical, that have +discernment in what is important and significant in their institutions, +and that value them.” + +Sergyéy Ivánovich transferred the question into the field of +philosophical history, which was inaccessible to Konstantín Levín, and +showed him the whole injustice of his view. + +“But as to your having no love for it,--you must pardon me,--it is a +case of our Russian indolence and mannerism, and I am convinced that it +is only a temporary aberration which will pass.” + +Konstantín was silent. He felt that he had been demolished all around, +but he felt at the same time that his brother did not understand what he +had intended to convey. But he did not know why he was not understood: +because he did not express clearly his thoughts, or because his brother +did not wish to understand him, or because he could not. However, he did +not pursue this thought any longer; he did not answer his brother, and +fell to musing about something different, some personal matter of his. + +Sergyéy Ivánovich fastened his last fishing-rod, untied the horse, and +they drove away. + + +The waggon-load was full. Iván jumped down and led the gentle, well-fed +horse by the bridle. The woman threw her rake on the waggon, and, +swinging her arms, went with a rapid step to the other women who were +walking together. When Iván drove into the road, he joined a whole +procession of other waggons. The women were walking behind the waggons, +with their rakes over their shoulders, adorned with bright flowers and +prating away with their sonorous, merry voices. A coarse, low, woman’s +voice started a song and sang it out to the refrain; then half a hundred +of low and high healthy voices caught the refrain and sang the song +again from the beginning. + +The singing women were approaching Levín, and it appeared to him as +though a cloud, discharging peals of joy, were passing over him. The +cloud came nearer, and overwhelmed him, and the stack on which he was +lying, and all the other stacks, and the waggons, and the whole meadow +with the distant field,--all moved and rocked with the rhythmical +measure of this wild, hilarious song, with its exclamations, its +whistling and shouting. Levín envied them their healthy merriment, and +he wished to take part in the expression of this joy of life. But he +could do nothing, and he was obliged to lie, and look and listen. When +the people disappeared with their song from the eye and the ear, a heavy +feeling of melancholy, on account of his loneliness, his physical +inactivity, his hostility to this world, took possession of Levín. + +Some of the very peasants who had more than anybody else been disputing +with him on account of the hay, those whom he had offended, or those who +had wished to cheat him,--those very peasants merrily bowed to him and +evidently had no evil thought of him, nor could they have any; they had +not only no repentance but even no recollection of their having wished +to cheat him. Everything was drowned in the sea of the merry mass work. +God has given the day, God has given the strength to work. And the day +and the strength are devoted to work, and in it is its own reward. For +whom is this work? What will be the fruits of this work? These are +secondary, unimportant considerations. + +Levín often admired this life, often experienced the feeling of envy +towards the people that lived this life, but it was to-day for the first +time, especially under the influence of what he had seen of the +relations of Iván Parménov to his young wife, that Levín was possessed +of the idea that it depended upon him to change the burdensome, empty, +artificial, and personal life which he was living for this busy, pure, +social, charming life. + +The old man who had been sitting by his side had long ago gone home; the +people had all disappeared. Those who lived near by had gone home, and +those that were from a distance were preparing their supper and their +camp in the meadow. Unnoticed by the people, Levín remained lying on the +stack, in order to see, listen, and think. Those who had stayed for the +night in the field hardly closed their eyes in the short summer night. +At first one could hear a universal merry conversation and laughter +during the supper, and then again songs and laughter. + +The whole long work-day had left no other trace in them but merriment. +Before the morning dawn everything grew quiet. One could hear only the +nocturnal sounds of the unsilenced frogs in the swamp, and of the horses +that neighed in the meadow in the mist that rose before morning. +Awakening from his revery, Levín climbed down from the stack and, +looking at the stars, he knew that night had passed. + +“Well, what am I going to do? How am I going to do it?” said he to +himself, trying to formulate for himself all that he had thought out and +that he had felt in that short night. All that he had thought and felt +was divided into three different mental processes. One was the +renunciation of his old life, of his useless education. This +renunciation caused him pleasure, and it was easy and simple for him. +Other thoughts and ideas touched upon the life which he now wanted to +live. He clearly felt the simplicity, purity, and legality of this life, +and he was convinced that he would find in it that satisfaction, that +rest and dignity, the absence of which had caused him such painful +sensations. But the third series of thoughts circled about the question +how to make that transition from the old life to the new. But here he +could see nothing clearly. “To have a wife. Have work and the necessity +for work. Should I leave Pokróvskoe? Should I buy land? Join society? +Marry a peasant woman? How am I to do it?” he asked himself again and +found no answer. “However, I have not slept the whole night, and I have +no clear ideas,” said he to himself. “I will think it out later. One +thing is certain, this night has decided my fate. All my former ideas of +family life are bosh,” said he to himself. “This is much simpler and +better----” + +“How beautiful!” thought he, as he looked at a strange, mother-of-pearl +shell of white cirrus clouds that stopped over his head in the middle of +the sky. “How superb everything is in this superb night! When has this +shell been formed? It is only a moment ago I was looking at the sky, and +there was nothing there but two white streaks. Yes, just so +imperceptibly have my views of life been changed!” + + + FROM “WAR AND PEACE” + + NAPOLEON’S ENTRY INTO MOSCOW + +On the night of the thirteenth of September was given Kutúzov’s order +for the Russian army to retreat beyond the Moskvá on the Ryazán road. + +The first divisions started in the night. As long as it was dark, they +were in no hurry and moved slowly and in good order. But when the moving +army reached the Dorogomílov bridge at daybreak, they could see ahead of +them the endless masses of the army, pressing and hurrying over the +bridge, and emerging on the other side, and stopping up the streets and +byways, and behind them followed similar endless masses. An unnecessary +haste and alarm took possession of the army. They all pushed forward to +the bridge, over the bridge, to the fords, and into the boats. Kutúzov +had himself taken by back streets beyond the Moskvá. + +By ten o’clock on the morning of September 14th there were left at large +in the Dorogomílov suburb only the battalions of the rear-guard. The +army was already beyond the Moskvá and out of sight of Moscow. + +At just that time, at ten o’clock on the morning of September 14th, +Napoleon stood among his soldiers on the Poklónnaya Hill, and surveyed +the spectacle before him. Beginning with September 7th and up to +September 14th, from the battle at Borodinó up to the enemy’s entry into +Moscow, during all the days of that alarming and memorable week, there +was that unusual autumn weather, which always puzzles people, when the +low sun is warmer than in spring, when everything gleams in the pure, +rarified air, so as to hurt the eyes, when the breast grows stronger and +fresher as it inhales the fragrant autumn air, when even the nights are +warm, and when in these dark and warm nights golden stars shower down +from the heavens, causing continual fear and joy. + +It was just such weather on September 14th, at ten o’clock in the +morning. The morning shone with a magic glow. Moscow spread far and wide +from the Poklónnaya Hill, with its river, its gardens and churches, and +seemed to be living its own life, its cupolas sparkling like stars in +the sunbeams. + +At the sight of the strange city with its unfamiliar forms of unusual +architecture, Napoleon experienced that somewhat envious and restless +curiosity which people generally experience at the sight of forms of a +strange life that knows nothing of them. Evidently the city was living +with all the manifestations of its life. By those indefinable signs, by +which a living body is unfailingly distinguished at a great distance +from a dead one, Napoleon saw from the Poklónnaya Hill the palpitation +of life in the city, and, as it were, felt the breath of that great and +beautiful body. Looking at Moscow, every Russian feels that she is a +mother; every stranger, who looks at her and does not know her maternal +meaning, must perceive the feminine character of this city, and Napoleon +felt it too. + +“There it is, at last, that famous Asiatic city with its innumerable +churches,--that holy Moscow! I ought to have seen it long ago!” said +Napoleon and, dismounting his horse, ordered to unfold before him the +map of that Moscow and called up the translator, Lelorme d’Ideville. + +“A city that is taken by the enemy is like a girl who has lost her +innocence,” thought he (he had said so to Tuchkóv in Smolénsk). And from +this point of view he surveyed the Eastern beauty that lay before him +and that he had not yet seen. It appeared strange to him that at last +his old wish, which had seemed to him to be impossible, was fulfilled. +In the clear morning light he looked, now at the city, now at the map, +studying the details of the city, and the confidence of possessing it +agitated and frightened him. + +“But could it have been otherwise?” thought he. “There is the capital: +it lies at my feet, expecting its fate. Where is Alexander now, and what +is he thinking about? Strange, beautiful, majestic city! And this is a +strange and majestic moment! In what light do I appear to them?” thought +he of his army. “Here is the reward for all these men of little faith,” +thought he, as he looked at those who surrounded him and at the +battalions that were defiled before him. “One word of mine, one motion +of my hand, and this ancient city of the Tsars is in ruins. But my mercy +is ever ready to be shown to the conquered. I must be magnanimous and +truly great. But no, it is not true that I am in Moscow,” it suddenly +occurred to him. “Still, there it lies at my feet, playing and trembling +with its golden cupolas and crosses in the rays of the sun. But I will +spare it. On the ancient monuments of barbarism and despotism I will +write great words of justice and mercy---- Alexander will feel that more +painfully than anything else, I know him.” It seemed to Napoleon that +the chief meaning of what was happening consisted in his personal +contest with Alexander. “From the summit of the Kremlin--yes, that is +the Kremlin, yes--will I give them laws of justice, will I show them the +true meaning of civilisation: I will cause generations of boyárs to +mention with love the name of their conqueror. I will tell the +deputation that I did not wish and do not now wish war; that I have made +war only on the false politics of their Court, that I love and respect +Alexander, and that I will accept in Moscow the conditions of peace, +such as is worthy of me and of my nations. I will not make use of the +fortune of war in order to lower their respected Tsar. ‘Boyárs,’ will I +say to them, ‘I want no war, I want the peace and well-being of all my +subjects----’ Indeed, I know their presence will inspire me, and I shall +speak as I always do,--clearly, majestically, and grandly. But is it +really true that I am in Moscow? Yes, there it is!” + +“Bring the boyárs to me,” he said to his suite. A general at once +galloped away with a brilliant suite to fetch the boyárs. + +Two hours passed. Napoleon had his breakfast, and again stood in the +same place upon Poklónnaya Hill, waiting for the deputation. His speech +to the boyárs was already clearly formed in his imagination. That speech +was full of dignity and grandeur, as Napoleon understood them. + +That mood of magnanimity which Napoleon intended to exercise in Moscow +carried him away. In his imagination he appointed days of assembly in +the palace of the Tsars, where the Russian dignitaries were to meet the +dignitaries of the French Emperor. He mentally appointed a governor who +would be able to gain the love of the populace. Having heard that there +were many charitable institutions in Moscow, he decided in his +imagination to shower his favours on all these establishments. He +thought that, as it was necessary in Africa to sit in the mosque in a +burnous, so one must in Moscow be as charitable as the Tsars. And in +order to touch most deeply the hearts of the Russians, he, like every +Frenchman, who cannot imagine anything touching without the memory of +his dear, his tender, his poor mother, decided to have written in large +letters over these institutions: “Establishment dedicated to my dear +mother.” No, simply: “House of my mother,” he concluded with himself. +“But am I really in Moscow? Yes, there it is, before me; but why is the +deputation so late in making its appearance?” thought he. + +In the meanwhile an agitated consultation took place between the +Imperial generals and marshals in the back of his suite. Those who had +been sent out to fetch the deputation returned with the news that Moscow +was deserted, that everybody had left the city. The faces of the +consulting men were pale and agitated. Not the fact that Moscow had been +abandoned by its inhabitants, however important that incident may have +appeared, frightened them, but how they were to announce it to the +Emperor, and how to avoid placing his Majesty into that terrible +position which the French call ridiculous, when they would inform him +that he had in vain been waiting so long for the boyárs, that there were +left crowds of drunken men, but no one else. Some said that it was by +all means necessary to get together some kind of a deputation; other +rejected that opinion and insisted that it behooved them carefully and +cleverly to prepare the Emperor, and to tell him the truth. + +“But we must tell him by all means,” said the gentlemen of the suite. +“But, gentlemen--” The situation was the more difficult since the +Emperor, in considering his plans of magnanimity, was patiently walking +up and down, in front of the map, now and then shielding his eyes, in +order to look down the road to Moscow, and smiling happily and proudly. +“But it is awkward--impossible!” said the gentlemen of the suite, +shrugging their shoulders, and not venturing to pronounce the suppressed +terrible word, _le ridicule_. + +In the meanwhile the Emperor, tiring of his vain expectation and feeling +with his histrionic sentiment that the majestic moment was lasting too +long and, consequently, was beginning to lose its majesticalness, gave a +sign with his hand. A single shot of the signalling cannon was heard, +and the troops that were besieging Moscow from various sides moved upon +the city, through the Tver, Kalúga, and Dorogomílov toll-gates. The +troops moved faster and faster, outrunning each other, in a rapid march +and a gallop, disappearing in the clouds of dust which they raised, and +filling the air with their deafening voices. Carried away by the +movement of the troops, Napoleon rode with the army to the Dorogomílov +toll-gate, but there he stopped again and, dismounting his horse, walked +up and down by the Kammer-Kolleg rampart, awaiting the deputation---- + +All this time Moscow was deserted. There were still some people in it, +there was still left one fiftieth part of all its former inhabitants, +but it was deserted. It was as deserted as is a queenless beehive in its +last moments. + +In the queenless hive there is no life, but at a superficial glance it +appears as full of life as others. The bees swarm in the warm rays of an +afternoon sun just as merrily about the queenless hive, as around the +other live hives; from a distance it is just as fragrant with honey, and +bees fly in and out of it as before. But one has only to look more +closely at it, to discover that there is no life left within. The bees +do not fly here as in the live hives; not the same odour and not the +same sound strike the bee-keeper. To the bee-keeper’s tap on the wall of +the great beehive there is no longer the former immediate, unison answer +and humming of tens of thousands of bees that threateningly lower their +backs and by the swift motion of their wings produce that aërial life +sound, but some discordant buzzing is heard in various places of the +empty beehive. From the entrance does not proceed, as formerly, a +fragrant alcoholic odour of honey and pollen, nor does it exhale a warm +breath of fulness, but with the odour of honey is mingled an odour of +emptiness and decay. + +At the entrance are no longer found the watch-bees, ready to defend the +hive to the last extremity, with their backs raised up and trumpeting +the alarm. There is no longer that even and soft sound, that palpitation +of work, resembling the sound of boiling, but one hears the incoherent, +discordant noise of disorder. Black, slender, honey-covered +plunderer-bees fly timidly and stealthily out of one hive into another; +they do not sting, but avoid danger. Formerly bees flew in with burdens +and out again without anything; now they fly off laden with booty. + +The bee-keeper opens the lower part of the hive and looks at its bottom. +Instead of the black rows of well-fed bees that, pacified by their work, +hung down to the very bottom, holding each other by the legs, and with a +continuous murmur of labour drawing out the wax, now sleepy, dried-up +bees wander about distractedly over the bottom and over the walls of the +hive. Instead of the floor being pasted even with glue, and swept clean +by the fanning wings, it is covered with bits of wax, with excrements of +the bees, and with half-dead bees that barely move their feet, and with +entirely dead bees that have not been removed. + +The bee-keeper opens the upper part of the hive, and inspects the top. +Instead of serried ranks of bees that have filled up all the interstices +in the honeycomb and that are warming their young brood, he sees only +the artistic, complicated work of the comb, but no longer in its +previous virgin purity. Everything is neglected and obstructed: the +black plunderer-bees race rapidly and stealthily over the structure; +while his own bees, dried up, wizened, and flaccid as if from age, +loiter slowly, without disturbing anyone, wishing nothing, and having +lost the consciousness of life. Drones, wasps, humble-bees, and moths in +their flight aimlessly beat against the walls of the hive. Here and +there, between the wax with the dead brood and the honey, is at times +heard from various sides an angry buzzing: two bees, from old habit, are +somewhere cleaning a nest of the hive, and carefully, above their +strength, dragging away a bee or humble-bee, not knowing themselves why +they are doing it. In another corner, two old bees are quarrelling, or +cleaning, or feeding each other, without thinking whether they are doing +it out of friendship or enmity. In a third place a crowd of bees press +against each other, and, attacking some victim, beat and choke it. And +the weakened or killed bee slowly, softly, like down, falls from above +upon the heap of corpses. + +The bee-keeper unscrews the two middle combs, in order to see the nest. +In place of the thick, black rows of thousands of bees, sitting back to +back, and guarding the highest secrets of birth, he sees hundreds of +drowsy, barely living skeletons of bees. They have died, nearly all of +them, before they knew it, sitting on the sanctum which they have +guarded, and which is no more. They exhale an odour of decay and death. +Only a few of them are stirring: they rise, lazily fly up and alight on +the hand of the enemy, whom they sting, not being able to die, while the +other, the dead bees fall down like scales of fishes. The bee-keeper +closes the hive and marks it with a piece of chalk, and in proper time +breaks it open and burns it out. + +Just so empty was Moscow when Napoleon, tired, restless, and frowning, +walked up and down the Kammer-Kolleg rampart, waiting for the external, +but, according to his ideas, necessary preservation of proprieties,--the +deputation. + +Some people were still moving about senselessly in various corners of +Moscow, preserving the old habits, but not understanding what they were +doing. + +When, with proper caution, it was announced to Napoleon that Moscow was +deserted, he angrily looked at him who reported it and, turning away, +continued to walk in silence. + +“Bring the carriage,” said he. He seated himself in the carriage with an +adjutant of the day, and drove into the suburb. + +“Moscow is deserted. What an incredible event!” said he to himself. + +He did not drive into the city, but stopped at an inn in the Dorogomílov +suburb. + +The finale of the theatrical performance was not a success! + + + + + Glyeb Ivánovich Uspénski. (1840-1902.) + + + Uspénski was born in the city of Túla, where his father was a + government official. He attended the Gymnasia at Túla and Chernígov, + devoting much of his time to the reading of the Russian classics. He + then studied at the universities of St. Petersburg and Moscow, leaving + them in 1863 without graduating. His literary career began in 1866 + with a series of sketches under the general title of _Customs of + Perdition Street_, in which he described the proletariat that eke out + their existence in small provincial towns, struggling with hunger and + cold, and drowning in liquor the cheerless monotony of their lives. He + next gave, in _Observations of a Lazy Fellow_ and other stories, a + series of types from the proletariat of intelligence in the same + provincial towns. In 1871 he went abroad, and wrote his _Letters from + Servia_. Upon his return he determined to turn his attention to the + “source,” that is, to the peasant. He settled for that purpose in the + country, in the Government of Samára, but his experience was + disappointing: he saw the peasant in his crude and savage nakedness. + His _Drudgery_, which is the result of his study of peasant morality, + was a revelation to Russia. Heretofore the peasant had been either + idealised or detracted, according to the literary camp to which the + writer belonged, but now he was for the first time painted from + nature, without reserve or bias. His greatest production is _The Power + of the Land_, based on another study in the Government of Nóvgorod, in + which he comes to the conclusion that the peasant can be saved only + when he is returned to his land. + + In English translation: _The Steam Chicken_ and _A Trifling Defect in + the Mechanism_, in _The Humour of Russia_, by E. L. Voynich, London + and New York, 1895. + + + FROM “THE POWER OF THE LAND” + + IVÁN PETRÓV + +Iván Petróv belongs to that useless, incomprehensible, disgraceful class +of village people (certainly disgraceful to such a country as Russia) +that has grown up in the last twenty years and that one can’t help +calling by any other name than “village proletariat.” This new-born +proletariat could absolutely have been avoided, if millions of measures +that are directed for the good of the masses paid at least as much +attention to the people’s conception of the world as they do to their +taxable qualities. + +A peasant is frequently led to turn his back on his land and to prefer +the tavern to his house by some such inconsistency in the peasant +“rights” by which he may one day be a foreman of a jury or a judge who, +by pronouncing the life-giving words “not guilty!” magnanimously saves +some unfortunate man, and the next day after this manifestation of his +great “right” may be beaten black and blue by the village official +because while intoxicated he had insulted his elder with the words: “O +you stub-nosed bunny!” One would have to discard all morality, all +spiritual life, all ability to live according to one’s own ideas, if one +wanted to move silently and without murmuring between these two poles of +the peasant “rights.” But this example is only a drop in the sea of that +radical disorder that undermines the most radical foundations of the +popular world conception and that evolves a man “without any prospects,” +“without a to-morrow,” and tries to make a labourer and slave of a man +who, by the very essence of his nature, cannot exist otherwise than with +the consciousness that he is a “master.” + +Look at this Iván Petróv, nicknamed Bosýkh: he is a man of great +physical power, and an agile and skilful workman; his wife is strong, +clever, and skilful, and was once a beauty; he can have all the land he +wants. In addition to being a husbandman, he is also a good village +joiner and a shoemaker; and even as a common day labourer--chopping +wood, or pressing hay--he could, by receiving seventy kopeks a day and +his board, live without any care. Instead, he has given up his farm, he +beats his wife, and she is continually weeping and complaining against +him; his three children loiter for days at a time in dirty rags in the +streets and without being cared for, and nobody knows whether they are +being fed. Though his hut is one of a row of new peasant huts where one +may see print curtains, Vienna furniture, clocks under glass globes, +etc., it is the acme of disorder: it is nearly all in ruins; instead of +window panes there are only rags; and yet one may see by the structure +of the cabin and outhouses that it was once a “rich” house, and that the +barns extended some two hundred feet in length; the posts are all of +oak, nearly six feet in circumference---- + +And the “master” himself? Ask about him the village people of standing, +and they will all give bad reports of him: he has sold the same hay to +three different parties, and the money he has spent in drinks; he has +taken on credit, “against the calf,” in three different shops, but he +has not paid anywhere, while he has sold the calf to somebody else and, +as usual, has spent the money in liquor. He has been several times +flogged in the village office for using abusive language to the +authorities, for unpaid taxes, and for beating his wife, whom, upon +returning from his punishment, he beat again mercilessly in the field. + +“Don’t give him any money, for the Lord’s sake, don’t advance him any!” +is the advice a wary villager gives you. + +“Don’t trust him a hair’s breadth!” says another villager who has been +cheated by Iván. + +And yet, let Iván “come to” for a week or two, what a splendid, what a +good and clever, man he is! How much humour there is in him, how much +observation, tenderness, magnanimity, self-detraction, and how much +youthful freshness of soul! What is it then that sends him in an +intoxicated state into the wet and dirty gutter, without boots, without +garments, his swollen face downward, and his broad shoulders beaten by +the rains and the wind? The whole village remembers his family, and all +say that the Bosýkhs were at one time among the first farmers, that Iván +used to live peaceably with his wife, that they had been “first-class” +workers; all are convinced that let him only awaken and he will be +priceless, that he has “golden hands”; and they wonder why he has turned +his back to everything, why he cheats, causes disturbances, and like a +tramp does an occasional day’s work only to spend his wages in the +tavern. + + +Now, Iván’s intoxication has changed into a disease. The people +characterise this disease that oppresses not only Iván, but whole masses +of the village proletariat like him, by the name of “weakness.” +Physically Iván is, like hundreds of similar “weak” peasants, not only +healthy and strong, but even powerful, consequently his weakness did not +spring from physical but some other causes. I have had frequent +conversations with Iván in regard to these “weaknesses”; for a long time +they led to no satisfactory results, and often they were only confusing, +especially to the writer of these lines, that is, to a man who has been +in the habit of explaining the wretched state of the masses almost +exclusively as springing from material want, misery, taxes, and so +forth. I shall here relate one of these conversations as an example. + +“Do tell me, Iván, why are you drinking so much?” I ask Iván in one of +those clear moments when he “comes to,” repents his dreadful actions, +and ponders over his bitter fate. + +Iván draws a deep sigh and speaks with contrition, almost in a whisper: + +“I have humoured myself too much---- I don’t know what to think---- We +had better not speak of it!---- When I think it over, I wish I were +dead, I swear I wish I were!” + +“But why? Do tell me!” + +“Why? Well, it ’s all--on account of--freedom! That ’s why! On account +of too much freedom!” + +As this answer perplexes me, and I am absolutely unable to see how +“freedom” should ruin a man, Iván tries to dispel my perplexity, and he +gives me a more detailed explanation: + +“On account of a free life, that ’s what it is!” + +“But what does that mean?” I ask him, still perplexed. + +“It means this: when I was living at the railroad station, I received +thirty-five roubles a month, and I had about ten men under my charge, +and I had an additional income of a rouble in silver for every +waggon,--now figure out how many waggons we sent out in a winter? Well, +it was there that I humoured myself----” + +The word “humour” does not at all fit a strapping, forty years old, +bearded man, and it is hard to understand how in the explanation of his +conduct he can use an expression that is proper only for a baby. But +Iván cannot find a more exact word. + +“Well, so I began to humour myself. When father was alive, I never took +a drop. He would have killed me, if I had, yes, he would have killed me +dead with his own hands. After father died, and I got married and had my +own household, I allowed myself a drink only when I was treated to it, +on a holiday, or once in a while a glass when I felt blue---- I was +careful, and I watched myself as long as I could. But when I had my +freedom at the railroad station, that is, my full liberty, then I began, +well, in a word, to be short, I let myself loose---- I kept it up for +days at a time, and I never could get enough---- I remember how it all +began, as though it were but yesterday: roadmaster Iván Rodiónych’s name +day fell on John of the Lent---- Well, he poured me out a glass of the +grape juice, they call it port---- I liked it, as I swallowed it--so I +took some more--and then gin, lemonade---- Since then that plague has +stayed with me. And why? It ’s all on account of freedom!---- Not being +used to it---- Making an easy living---- That ’s what it is from!---- I +used to have my pockets full of money---- Well, since then I have been a +regular pig----” + +So it appears that “freedom,” “liberty, easy living, plenty of money,” +that is, that which is necessary for a man to establish himself, causes +his whole disorder, until he becomes “a regular pig.” + +“Why did you spend your money not on your house but on drinking?” I ask +him. + +“That ’s the trouble, I was not used to it! Life was too free to think +of house and farm---- Do anything you please, and nobody interferes with +you---- In short, there is a good chance to humour yourself----” + +Seeing that his explanation explains nothing and that I am unable to +understand why an easy life makes a pig of a man, Iván tries to make his +idea clearer by an example, such as peasants are in the habit of having +recourse to in their conversations. I shall here give his example, +though I know that the reader will hardly be much enlightened by it. + +“Because,” says he, “our peasant nature is n’t used to it---- We are by +nature a working lot---- Let me tell you an example---- There was living +in our neighbourhood a gentleman, by the name of Podsólnukhov, and he +was farming---- So he farmed and farmed, and seeing that there was no +profit in farming, he got it into his head to go into the dairy +business. He had no use for our breed of cattle, and it ’s so, our cows +are rather thin and coarse-haired---- ‘Well,’ says he, ‘I ’ll get a cow +from abroad.’ He sent for one. A telegram came, the cow was on her way, +and a learned German was bringing her---- There they were leading her, +why, almost in chains,--such a monster, some seven feet in height, ten +feet in length---- Her horns, her eyes, and such things,--God’s +wonder,--a regular giant, an Eruslán Lázarevich[25]---- They cleaned out +the cattle yard for her, spread some straw over it, and the moment she +came, she lay down on her side upon it. And the German asked for a lamp +to be used in the night. Very well. And the cow remained lying on her +side and eating in that posture. All the women did was to put the feed +within reach of her mouth. She kept on eating, but of milk there was not +a trace. + +“‘What is the matter,’ says I to the German, ‘she is not giving any +milk?’ + +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘she is resting; it ’s so and so,’ says he. ‘She has +been travelling a long distance, and in the car, and so she is tired, +and is taking it easy----’ + +“‘How long,’ says I, ‘will she be taking it easy?’ + +“‘Maybe a month.’ + +“All right. We thought we would let her while away her time with our +village bull,--but that was a dreadful blunder. No sooner did he lay his +eyes on her majestic form, when he got frightened like a rabbit, for he +saw at once that he, with his country snout, had no business in her +presence,--and so he picked himself up and off he went, and it was only +twelve versts away that some peasants succeeded in catching him. But she +was resting herself all the time. She ate, and yawned, and ate again---- +At last she evidently felt conscience-stricken and gave a whole pail of +milk. So our master said: + +“‘Do you see, Iván?’ says he,--‘there is no comparison with our sickly +little cows!’ + +“‘Well, no, sir,’ says I; ‘considering what she has eaten up, our cattle +are worth more.’ + +“‘How so?’ + +“‘It ’s like this: figure out, how much she has eaten up, and compare it +with the milk she is giving. It ’s so, she does give a pailful, but that +pailful costs too much. If you were to give her feed to ten of our cows, +they would give you ten times the amount this monster is giving you.’ + +“Says the German: ‘She is not the kind of a breed,’ says he, ‘that ’s +just good for the milk; she is considering herself too; she is eating +for her own benefit--just look what firm flesh she has.’ + +“After these words says I to my master: ‘Do you see, sir,’ says I, ‘it +’s just it: our cows suit our case much better. We do not care about +their flesh, and they do not live for their benefit, but for work; they +give back what they eat up, and they do not consider themselves. Our +cows are born for work, and for work they live all their lives,--that ’s +their purpose.’ + +“And so there are all kinds of men. And we peasants are just the same. +We work the year round, and all our lives, without stopping. I tried to +get away from my peasant’s life, and I have almost killed myself with +drinking---- There are some who like that which is easy, and who want to +do nothing---- Some get rich by saving their money, but when I turned my +back on the village and ran away from a peasant’s work, and began to +live freely,--my money flew like chips. All I was interested in was how +to get rid of it, and I could think of no other place to spend it in but +the tavern. What? Well, I ’ll make a clean breast of it,” Iván spoke in +a whisper, “I had three mamzelles! I forgot the Law! I am speaking +before the Lord---- Freedom! liberty! I was only thinking how to do +wrong, pshaw! I so far forgot myself that I began to oppress my own +kind, my fellow-peasants! Why did I do it? I had simply lost my +conscience---- Some cold day they would be looking for me and having +found me in a saloon, they would bow and say: + +“‘Let us have our hay; we have been here two days and spending our +money, but we can’t get at it.’ + +“It seems, it was not much for me to say to my assistant: ‘Mikháylo! Go +and get them the car!’ but Satan himself began to urge me on; so I sat +over my bottle, looking important, and said: ‘You have to do the best +you can.’ + +“‘But, friend, how are we to find it? We have walked all over the yards, +among whistling engines and no end of smoke, and we are afraid we shall +get killed yet, and we are worn out besides.’ + +“‘Look for it! Find the fellow you need!’ + +“‘But you, our protector----’ + +“And I would keep them off until someone of those present would say to +them: + +“‘Stick three roubles into his mug,--that ’s what you want to do!’ + +“And it was only thus that I did them any favours---- If my wife came my +way, I used to scold her roundly. As long as I stayed in the village I +had use for her, but here where I had my freedom, I had others to pass +my time with, and what was I to do with her, a common peasant woman? +That ’s the kind of lawlessness I came to. I drank more and more, and +the authorities heard of it, and the superintendent of the division came +and mauled me all up (his face shone as he was telling this), and the +superintendent of traffic gave me a few mighty blows (a childish joy was +spread over his face), and they took me to the round-house, and laid it +on to me,--so I made the sign of the cross and, just as if I had risen +from the grave, I jumped up, and started on a run home, without my hat, +right through the cold! Over fields, over snowdrifts, by back roads, I +flew like a bird, not stopping for twenty-five versts, until I was back +to my farm. There I was, in my yard, without a thing to my name, +everything in ruins, but I felt as happy as if I had been resurrected. +Praised be the Lord! Praised be the Queen of Heaven! I am again a man, I +have found myself! I fell to my wife’s feet. + +“‘Forgive me, my dear wife! Let me work, look after the farm! I shall +give up all my foolishness, I will be a man again!’ + +“And I went at it with a vim! I loved it all,--my field, my plough and +harrow, the sheds, the calf, the barn that was beginning to lean to one +side, and the fence, and the woodpile---- They were all my dear friends, +my nearest ones. It was just terrible to look at the desolation, but it +only gave me more courage. The more work I saw, the more work there was +ahead, the greater was my desire to do it, and the greater my +strength---- That ’s what our peasant nature is! But there where I had +been there was no work, but all kinds of distractions,--and money; but +that had almost deprived me of my senses, and I dragged my soul through +the mud, as a swine drags her belly. And what from? Freedom!----” + +Iván would always begin and end his conversations with me by this +incomprehensible correlation of “freedom” and “moral fall,” but you see, +he not only did not make my misgivings clearer, but considerably +increased them. + + [25] Giant of Russian fairy tales. + + + + + Aleksándr Ivánovich Levítov. (1842-1877.) + + + Levítov was the son of a village priest in the Government of Tambóv. + His early youth was passed at home in sordid peasant surroundings, + where he learned just enough from his father to be able to read + religious books. A seminarist having provided him with some of the + Russian classics, he acquired a taste for literature and entered a + Seminary. He was a brilliant student, but had to suffer much insult + from his brutal companions for his physical weakness. Scenes from the + Seminary later formed the main subject of his stories. He then entered + the Moscow University, but soon afterwards transferred himself to the + Medico-Surgical Institute at St. Petersburg. Having taken part in some + political agitation, he was exiled to the north-east. Here he + associated entirely with the lower classes, confirmed himself in his + vicious habit of drinking, and in his sober moments composed his + excellent _Steppe Sketches_, that abound in poetical descriptions of + southern nature and in detailed pictures of the inhabitants of the + steppe. Then began his roving life from town to town, from one capital + to another, living all the time in the purlieus of the cities, and in + cellars, garrets, and outhouses. This, combined with his chronic state + of intoxication, led to consumption, and he finally died in a clinic. + Levítov has given a series of pictures from the life of the most + degraded townspeople with whom he came in contact, under the name of + _The Misery of Country, Roads, and Towns_. They are a reflex of his + own experiences and make painful reading, though, but for some + discursiveness, they are artistic in conception and execution. + + + SHOEMAKER COCK-OF-THE-BOOTS + + + I + +There was in our village a good fellow,--a shoemaker. We just called him +Cock-of-the-Boots, because he deserved the name. Early in the morning +and late at night you might have seen him staggering through the village +streets, and yelling, in his drunken fit, and repeating the same phrase: + +“Come out, you village wiseacre, if there is such a one among you! Come +out,” he shouted, “and I will have a chat with you.” + +But no one dared to come out, being sure to get the worst of it. + +He had come to us from down Usmán way. He was such a thick-set, +homely-looking fellow, with thick, monstrous moustaches, and he wore a +blue coat. His wife was as stubby and homely as he, and all in wrinkles, +but she had on a chintz dress that was good enough for a shopkeeper’s +wife and a red shawl over her shoulders. You would think that the moment +he drove into the village he would make for the inn? The Lord bless you, +he made plump for the tavern. That is, he and his wife went into the +tavern, but the cart was left in charge of six good-looking young +fellows, all of them in extensible boots, caps, and blue nankeen coats. +They stood around the cart. People began to come up to them, and +somebody asked them: + +“Say, what kind of people are you, honourable gentlemen? Whence do you +come and whither do you tend?” + +“Step aside,” they replied to us, “step aside as far as you can, before +dad comes back from the tavern, or there will be trouble!” + +We all had to laugh, seeing that these strapping fellows were trying to +frighten us with their “dad.” + +We looked around: there he was coming out of the tavern with a bretzel +in his hands, his cap poised way back on his head, while his wife +carried a quart of brandy in her hand, in order to treat her sons. + +“Go ahead,” he said, “and drink, and then find some quarters, for I am +sleepy.” + +Right near the tavern there was living in a hut a crazy old woman. We +had nicknamed her the Blue Rig. She had no relatives of any sort, and +managed to live somehow by charity. While he was cooling himself off in +the tavern, his youngsters found out that she was helpless, and so they +immediately reported to him: + +“Dad, there is hereabouts a destitute old woman. They call her Blue Rig, +and we might stop at her hut.” + +They settled there, and before long they smoked the old woman out of her +house. The township chief sent some hundred-men to oust +Cock-of-the-Boots, but he gave the hundred-men a mighty drubbing, and +told them that it was his house, and that the chief had better attend to +his own business. + +The chief marvelled at the fellow, and himself came down upon him with a +posse. The whole village went to see the fun. + +Cock-of-the-Boots took up a daring attitude in front of the chief, his +hands akimbo; then he stroked his moustache and said: + +“What made you, sir, come to me when I did not invite you? You had +better wait for an invitation.” + +“How dare you?” began the chief. + +Now each of Cock-of-the-Boots’s sons had a special name: their father +called one of them Prince Kutúzov, another Paskévich, a third Díbich. +“They are all my generalissimos,” he would say. When the chief began to +call him names, he turned to Díbich: + +“Díbich! Take him out!” + +Díbich, without any further ado, took the chief by his shoulder and led +him out. The hundred-men and some of the villagers tried to +interfere,--but these protectors got dreadfully mauled by +Cock-of-the-Boots and his sons. + +“I myself,” cried Cock-of-the-Boots, “with my good fellows can kick out +two such villages as this. I,” says he, “will root out any man that will +undertake to oppress me, because I am not afraid of anybody, and my +children are not afraid of anybody but me.” + +And his wife seconded him: “That ’s right,” says she, “we are not afraid +of anybody!” + +It was a fine family we had to deal with. + +“It ’s now up with Cock-of-the-Boots,” we villagers thought, after that +occurrence. “They ’ll certainly drag him to Siberia for insulting such a +great gentleman.” But that ’s where we were wrong. The chief complained +to the district superintendent, saying: “It is so and so, and I can’t do +anything with Cock-of-the-Boots, because,” says he, “he has a powerful +lot of sons, and they get the better of the whole village.” + +No sooner did Cock-of-the-Boots hear of that letter than he slung a +wallet with a slice of bread over his shoulder, lighted his pipe,--he +had a small pipe with a short carved stem,--and off he went to the +capital of the province. A lot of gentlemen were just entering the +Governor’s palace, and he somehow managed to slip in with them into the +audience room, where he waited for the Governor to appear, in the +meantime angrily twisting his moustache. + +Then came his turn. + +“Who are you?” asked the Chief, “and what do you want?” + +“I am, sir,” answered Cock-of-the-Boots, “a crown peasant and a +shoemaker. And what I want is that you should kick out the township +chief,--his name is so and so,--because he is an embezzler of the Tsar’s +treasure, and a great nuisance to the commune. That ’s what I want,” +says he. + +They say that the gentlemen that were present were stunned, seeing how +freely he spoke with the General. The Governor himself frowned and +looked for a long time at Cock-of-the-Boots with angry eyes, and finally +he said: + +“Do you, Cock-of-the-Boots,” says he, “want me to put you in jail for +insulting me in that way?” + +But Cock-of-the-Boots only smiled, and his moustaches twitched, and he +said to the Governor: “Let me tell you,” says he, “that I won’t go to +jail, but straight to Peter, to complain to the Emperor himself; and you +are not strong enough to stop me,” says he, “because I am not afraid of +anybody except God in heaven,” and he threw his wallet over his +shoulders, and started out. + +The gentlemen present could not keep back any longer and burst out +laughing, and the Governor himself laughed. + +“What a bold fellow!” says he, “I have not seen the like of him in all +my life. Fetch him back,” says he, “and send him to my cabinet. I will +talk to him later.” + +“I see no objection to having a talk with him,” said Cock-of-the-Boots, +smiling. “I am always ready to talk to a Governor.” + +It is not known what the Governor and he talked about, only, +Cock-of-the-Boots had not yet reached his village when the township +chief had an order from the capital to the effect that he had been a +chief long enough. + + + II + +You ought to have seen how we ever after honoured Cock-of-the-Boots. As +he and his wife passed a great part of their time in the tavern, they +were treated to many a cup by anybody who happened to be there and who +felt that they must offer them a part of their just labour. But +Cock-of-the-Boots would keep one of his hands in his pocket, and with +the other he would twist his moustache around his ears, saying: + +“Now let we tell you why I am drinking all the time. It ’s because you +are all fools, and I can’t do anything with you.” + +“That ’s correct,” was the invariable refrain of his wife. + +And to tell the truth, if he had not been drinking so hard, he could +have gotten away with many a fellow, for he was very clever. He was a +great hand at his business! He could make any kind of boots, gentlemen’s +and shopkeepers’ boots, extensible and simple peasant boots,--it was +just a joy to look at them! The only trouble was, that accursed +Cock-of-the-Boots rarely ever finished a job. He nearly always carried +the leather that his customers gave him to the tavern to exchange it for +drinks. + +“How did you dare, Cock-of-the-Boots, to buy drinks with my leather?” +they would ask him. + +“Simply because I wanted to,” says he. + +Nobody entered any complaints against him, because it did no good. He +knew how to amuse all the chiefs with his conversations and to gain all +kinds of favours from them. They tried to take the law into their own +hands, but that only ended in an all around fight, for his wife and sons +took his side, and also a stalwart sexton,--they called him +Katerínych,--and they easily vanquished the whole village. However, we +learned to find our way into Cock-of-the-Boots’s heart, only it took us +quite a while to find it out. All one had to do, when Cock-of-the-Boots +had spent the leather in drinks, was to take at once another piece to +him, and beg him not to spend this second piece. + +“Won’t you, Grigóri Kuzmích, make me a pair of boots out of this? We ’ll +square up about the first piece later.” + +“That ’s what I like!” Cock-of-the-Boots would say. “I like to be +trusted!” he would shout, “just as I would like to trust others, only I +have nothing to give.” And he immediately ordered his sons to make a +special effort with these boots. + +“As you command, dad!” his sons would say, and they at once set to work, +so that you could see chips flying. They were a fine lot, and they +obeyed their parents so that we all envied them. + +“Just look!” the whole village said, “father and mother are drunkards, +but the children are all right.” They not only were skilled in their +trade and could read and write, but every one of them had picked up some +specialty: one could play the accordion, another the guitar, or horn. +They used to go out, of a summer evening, into the street, after their +work was done, and, seating themselves in front of their hut, they began +to play some sweet song. There was not one of the whole family that did +not have a good voice. Their mother was such an insignificant woman to +look at; but when she began to trill “Lovely forget-me-not” with her +soft voice, everybody would stop to listen. Cock-of-the-Boots himself +was regarded as a first-class singer in these entertainments. At first +he would start with a fine tenor, and then he would carry the whole song +in a heavy bass. Where in the world did he get that bass from? + +The whole village and people from the outlying hamlets used to come to +hear them. + +Cock-of-the-Boots lived in this manner for three or four years. We all +got used to his intoxication, and shouting at night time, and his +blaspheming. We quit getting angry at him, because, in the first place, +he was a hopeless case, and, in the second, he did a great deal of good +in the village and the neighbouring hamlets. For example, if a rich +merchant began to flay the people in too open a manner, or the chief or +scribe put down the screws a little too tight, Cock-of-the-Boots and his +friend, the sexton, would go to their windows and would read them a +sermon, which made them wish they were dead. + +“Just go away from these windows, good fellows, and stop this +disgraceful business,” such a man would say to them. “I ’ll treat you to +all the brandy you wish,” he would add. + +They particularly annoyed the village dean. His daughters did not dare +to go out into the streets, or even stand outside the door, because the +dean had offended the sexton. + +“Just wait, Katerínych!” the dean threatened the sexton, “I ’ll see to +it that you get your hair shaved off.” + +“I am ready any minute,” said the sexton, “for I would rather live with +the devil in hell than be under your rule.” + +The dean would spit out in anger, as he listened to these talks of the +sexton, and would walk away. But Cock-of-the-Boots and his friend rolled +with laughter, and they proclaimed all his secrets to the whole +Christian world: + +“We ’ll teach you a thing or two! You just make a move against us!” + +When they got tired standing under the window, they lay down opposite +the house, and proceeded with their scolding, and they would not go away +any sooner than they would be treated to brandy or money. When this was +sent out to them they only laughed: + +“Look at these infidel devils! They think that they can wash down their +wrongs with this brandy. Don’t worry, you will not wash them down!” +Having had their fun, they walked away, and the sexton invariably +started a chant upon these occasions. + +They were particularly successful in saving young men from conscription, +if these were unjustly worried by the commune, on account of their +poverty or orphaned state. All such an unfortunate man had to do was to +buy a keg of brandy, paper, and ink, and the sexton was ready to compose +a letter. He presented his case to the higher authorities in so +convincing a manner that many a recruit was returned from service and +the commune received severe reprimands. And if the higher authorities +stood in with the commune against these luckless fellows, our scribes +would add a postscript to their petition to the effect that: “If your +honour will not free Iván Lúchin who has been shaven a recruit against +the law, we will at once go to Peter to complain to our father the +Tsar.” And they both signed that letter. + +“This petition,” they wrote, “has been signed in person by the village +sexton Kuzmá Lukích Zabubénny and the crown peasant and shoemaker +Grigóri Kuzmích, nicknamed Cock-of-the-Boots.” + +Many a fellow was freed after such a letter. But they refused to +intervene in the case of a man whose evident fate it was to be a +soldier, and in no case did they receive any other remuneration than +brandy. + +It was on account of his good soul, which we all saw, that we did not +interfere with his drinking. All of a sudden we heard the news of a +general conscription. + +Our town officers scared us with such phrases: “There will be an +unusually large conscription. Three countries have risen against us. We +’ll have a job on hand.” + +“Well,” we said, “if there is to be a big conscription, let there be. +Evidently it has to be.” In the meantime we began to fit out any of the +young fellows that might be called, that they might be ready at any time +and hour, for it was not for a day or two that our youngsters were to +leave us---- + +These rumours began to spread just before the battle of Sebastopol. + +At last the time came to draw lots, and then to be examined as recruits. +Cock-of-the-Boots did not have to worry about his sons for something +like three years, because a nephew of his had become a soldier and, +consequently, his family was for the time being exempt. + +“This Cock-of-the-Boots is a lucky chap,” we said. “He has raised six +fine eagles, and there they are to stay at home.” + +One morning, we saw to our surprise that Cock-of-the-Boots was starting +out on the road with all his sons. He was walking at their head and +smoking his pipe, and he looked gloomy and his moustache hung down, but +he was not drunk. The mother was accompanying them and weeping torrents +of tears. + +“Where are you starting out, Grigóri Kuzmích? Have you taken a liking to +another place, and do you want to leave us?” + +“Good-bye, friends!” he said. “I am going to enter my sons, every one of +them, into the army, because a large host is up against us, and there +are as many of them as stars in heaven.” + +Sexton Kuzmá was walking with them. + +“Orthodox people,” he said, “don’t recall me with an evil thought! I +sha’n’t think of you at all, because I am sick of your foolishness. I +’ll try to find a place somewhere.” + +“They are jesting!” we thought. “They are, no doubt, going out on the +chase or catching fish.” + +But it was not a jest at all. He really inscribed all his sons and the +sexton in the army! And the provincial authorities were so much pleased +with his act, that he and his boys received a great deal of money, and +he was promised that all his sons and the sexton were to serve in one +and the same company. + +They had wanted to put all his sons in the bodyguard, but +Cock-of-the-Boots begged them to let them go straightway to the war. + +“I have brought them to go against the enemy,” he said. + +The authorities gave him a written document in which they expressed +their thanks to him. When he returned home, he hung that letter up in +the hut of the Blue Rig, and started on a protracted spree. + +His wife could not believe for a long time that he would give up all his +sons at once. She kept on hoping that to-day, or to-morrow, one of them +at least would return, say, the youngest. But when she saw that there +was no return from the army, she joined her husband in the spree. + +She was all bent up and crushed, and she sailed along, vainly moving her +hands, and mumbling something; her red shawl fell down from one shoulder +and dragged along the ground. + +She did not long continue to walk that way. She soon died. While on her +deathbed, she gave her husband a terrible tongue-lashing for having +separated her from her dear children. + +Some people came to look at the dead person, and they found +Cock-of-the-Boots talking to her as if she were alive, for he was +dreadfully drunk just then. + +“Foolish woman!” he muttered. “You do not know your own good luck. You +will be better off there! I myself have long wished to die, but death +does not come to me.” + +He muttered that in an undertone, and not aloud as he used to. It was a +pity to see him left so alone. The hut looked dreadfully desolate, and +destitute of everything. The stove had all fallen in. The Blue Rig, +tattered and torn, and all wrinkled up, lay on the stove, and looked at +everybody like an insensate beast, and angrily gnashed her teeth at +them---- + + + III + +Cock-of-the-Boots became gentler than a lamb when his family had all +left him. He sat for days at a time in the hut with the Blue Rig, and +they looked at each other. Village urchins came in and made fun of the +old people, but they received no reply. Only at midnight, when the whole +village was asleep, the neighbours could hear Cock-of-the-Boots wailing: + +“My children, my children, what have I done with you?” + +Neighbors stole up to the window, and they saw him wallowing on the +ground and tearing his hair. In daytime he again sat down in his den, +not leaving his place, and he was so sad, grey, and bald. When the +villagers saw that the old people not only could not provide for +themselves, but were even too weak to go a-begging, they began to bring +them bread, water, and kvas. + +“Why do you sit here, Grigóri Kuzmích?” old people would ask him, when +he came a little to his senses. + +“I am waiting for death, dear people! Maybe it will carry away my great +grief, which I have tried all my life to drown in the taverns, but never +succeeded in drowning!” And he began to weep bitterly, tears flowing in +torrents. + +We wondered much what grief he was talking about. He had feasted nearly +all his life in taverns at other people’s expense, and now he was +grieving. If he was weeping for his sons, he had himself taken them to +be inscribed in the army. + +His grief must, indeed, have been very great, for he lamented dreadfully +at night, and often woke us up. He woke us with his awful cries, like +the sound of the house spirit when he calls for an evil omen; and we, +hearing them, were very much frightened and, rising in the morning, +fervently prayed to our Lord---- + + + + + Nikoláy Nikoláevich Zlatovrátski. (1845-.) + + + Zlatovrátski, the son of a village priest, was born in Vladímir, where + he attended the Gymnasium. His father having established a library for + the people, Zlatovrátski had an opportunity to acquaint himself with + Russian literature. He then studied at the St. Petersburg + Technological Institute, but his extreme poverty compelled him to look + for work, and he became a proof-reader in one of the newspapers. This + gave him an impetus to try himself in authorship, and his first + sketch, _The Murrain_, appeared in 1866. Since then he has written a + large number of shorter and longer stories, dealing with the life of + the peasants in the period of the emancipation, and also with the + intelligent classes at the same time. To the latter he assumes a + negative attitude, regarding them as having departed from the simple, + fundamental life of the Russian peasant. Though he treats his peasants + with more consideration, there is a strong element of pessimism even + in the sketches of that kind, thus, differing from the similar stories + by Uspénski. They also differ from Uspénski’s novels by the + musicalness of their language and the greater wealth of detailed + descriptions. Among his best stories are _The History of a Village_, + _Village Work Days_, _The Karaváevs_, _The Wanderer_. + + + OLD SHADOWS + +In moments of heavy anguish of soul my “little grandfather” would visit +me, and he brought with him from the darkness of oblivion a series of +just such little and insignificant existences as himself. My childhood +and youth are, it seems, inseparably connected with these little +existences. I particularly recall those strange, mysterious forms that +suddenly appeared, one knew not whence,--both in our “old house” in the +provincial city, and in the old, weather-stained cabin of my +grandfather,--and just so vanished, one knew not whither. They were +wandering shadows that frightened our childish imagination,--especially, +since my grandmother, whom I cannot picture to myself otherwise than in +an enormous kerchief, with overhanging eyebrows and a huge frying fork +in her hand, had no use for them and called them “tramps,” “loafing +people,” and “worthless lot.” Yet, in spite of the existence of my stern +old grandmother, who always appeared before me as an incarnation of that +stern period,--these “loafing people,” it seemed to me, were breeding +more and more in our Russian land, and with it my stern grandmother gave +ever more a piece of her mind to my visionary mother and to the “village +windbag,” my little grandfather, who were giving refuge to these people, +and to whom, it seemed, they clung as a moth flits about the light. + +Dimly pass before me those strange, mysterious forms which that +irrevocable past produced in such large numbers. I have before my mind +the tall, smoke-stained old cabin of my grandfather that was roughly +made of big logs. It is warm within, but in the open the frost is +getting stronger towards evening. Half of the panes are already covered +with downy hoar-frost, and there is a thumping, crackling sound now in +one corner, now in another. Grandfather is sitting by a tallow dip, +hurrying to mend his leaky felt boot with a piece of leather. Mother is +solemnly and chantingly reading the versified paraphrase of the psalms, +distinctly pronouncing the words,--and I enjoy the harmonious sound of +the words, though I ill understand their meaning. + +Sister and I are snuggled up under a warm sheepskin, and we silently +move in some frivolous fairy world, for which there is no time and no +space: from the fantastic countries of the Eastern Shaherezade we are +rapidly transferred to the warm, soft shores of the Jordan, to the stern +kingdom of the Pharaohs, or suddenly we are borne in the whirl of a +joyous, bright light, amidst a sea of festive sounds of music, to the +splendour of a new, frivolous world of European capitals, whither so +enticingly beckon and call us all those vigorous, fresh young people, +who had managed before us to escape from the harsh and murky habitations +of the manorial hamlets---- Though sister and I are not saying anything, +yet I am quite convinced that her thoughts are taking her to the same +regions. I need only ask her: “Do you remember the letter mother read us +yesterday from Uncle Sásha in St. Petersburg?” in order to be sure that +her youthful fancy will immediately carry her, as it has carried me, +far, far away from these dim and dusky, though warm, walls of +grandfather’s cabin. + +Suddenly a heavy creaking is heard on the bridge; the gate ring rattles; +someone coughs behind the door. We all listen intently; the door is +opened timidly and with indecision, and on the threshold appears a tall, +lean, strange figure, merged in steaming frost: he has on a long +sheepskin coat that is covered with snow, and on his head is a tall, +thick, cotton-filled cap and in his hands a long staff; over his +shoulder hangs a long calfskin-covered wallet; he has a long, thin, wet +face, with sunken cheeks, thick tufts of a greyish beard, and timid, +black eyes under long brows. + +“Peace and blessing be upon your house!” distinctly enounces the +stranger on the threshold, without moving from the spot. + +“Thank you,” says grandfather. “Whither are you bound? Másha, get a +slice of bread from grandmother,--say it ’s for a pilgrim.” + +“Don’t you recognise me, father?” in the meantime asks the pilgrim, +without leaving the threshold. + +“No, no---- Or are we acquaintances?” says grandfather, as he is looking +for his glasses. “Who are you?” + +The pilgrim timidly surveys the room with his penetrating black eyes, +and softly says: + +“A despised servant of the Lord, a slave of men--the manorial servant +Aleksándr--the wandering Jew, the accursed Ahasuerus----” + +“O Aleksándr! I do recognise you, I do,” says grandfather. “You want to +warm yourself and stay over night; you are tired, no doubt. We will find +a place!---- Sit down, Aleksándr, pilgrim of the Lord!” + +“Will you let me, father?” the pilgrim asks again, still timidly +surveying all around him. + +“Have no fear, no fear! The Lord be with you, come in, make yourself at +home!” + +The pilgrim slowly and with indecision takes off his wallet, and seats +himself on the bench with a heavy sigh. + +“Well, Aleksándr, have you not yet found rest for your soul?” asks +grandfather. + +But the pilgrim sits in silence, and lowers his head. + +Then a deep sigh is heard again issuing from his breast. Then he begins +to speak clearly, without hurrying, lowering his eyes all the time, as +if ashamed to look at us. + +“I have crossed all the borders--have been everywhere--have visited all +the holy places---- I have been in the countries of the midday sun and +of midnight--on sultry Athon and in the cold Solovétsk cells---- +Everywhere, father---- I have continually looked for the eternal city, +and there is no refuge for the despised slave!---- Father, I have +suffered hunger and cold---- In summer and in winter I, as a thief, hide +from the light, and wander at night-time---- I come into cities, and +they drive me out, I knock at the cells, and they do not receive the +outcast---- I see neither my kin, nor my relations, neither wife, nor +children, who abide in servitude---- Be accursed, despised slave, for +having thought of liberty, abandoning your roof, and departing from your +kin!---- If I should wish to return to the house of my master, my +children and my kin would deny me, for the fear of the Jews, and my +master would turn me over to mockery and to outrage---- I am afraid to +return to slavery, and I shall wander about, as a thief, and my refuge +shall be the lair of beasts----” + +And suddenly the pilgrim falls upon his knees with a dull sound, and +begins to pray. For a long time are heard, amidst a complete silence, +the deep sighs of the pilgrim and now and then a moan of my grandfather. + +My mother, and sister, and I look with fixed attention at that lean, +bony face, which is as swarthy as if cast of bronze, and on which lie +the clear traces of his endless wanderings and immeasurable sorrow. + +The pilgrim rises, straightens himself up, and still keeps his eyes on +the holy image. Large tears course down his cheeks, while his black eyes +sparkle at the same time evil despair and stern faith. + +“Father!” he suddenly speaks, raising his hand to the image. +“There--there let us seek the eternal city!---- Only there---- There +they will not cast you off----” + +“But do not despair, Aleksándr! God will uplift you,” says grandfather. +“There is not a tear, Aleksándr, that floweth in vain, and is not heard +at the throne of the Almighty! Not a hair of your head shall perish---- +Seek, and you shall always find! Knock, and the gates of truth shall be +opened unto you!---- Sit down, Aleksándr, and strengthen yourself with +what God hath sent.” + +The pilgrim is, it seems, quieted down, and he seats himself on the +bench again; but now his head is raised, and his gleaming eyes look +somewhere into the distance, as if they pierced the walls of our cabin, +and a strange struggle shines in them, as if they did not yet know on +what to rest their choice: on heaven or on earth. + +“Well, Aleksándr, tell us something about God’s world. Many things are +revealed to you pilgrims. Come, sit down here!” + +The pilgrim seats himself at the table, and I see my mother, her eyes +burning with some mysterious curiosity, moving up towards him, placing +her arms on the table, leaning her head upon them, and fixing her dreamy +eyes upon the pilgrim’s face. + +And the pilgrim begins to speak. But my childish imagination is only +impressed by his stern, misty form, and has preserved nothing else, and +I recall his speeches only as the din of a turbid torrent that runs +across the endless steppes. And over these steppes rapidly marches, +driven by the wind, the tall, stern figure that is in vain seeking a +place where the son of man may lay down his head. + +And the pilgrim has not yet ended his stories, which, it seems, are so +long that they last a whole night, and a day, and again a night, when +there appears in the door of our cabin a new strange being that strikes +our childish imagination. + +At first we see only an immense old rough sheepskin coat that is held +together by a belt, and large old felt boots, but it is quite impossible +to define the sex, the age, or the occupation of the person that is +hidden in the recesses of that huge coat, above which is barely seen the +head so tightly wrapped in a frosted shawl that even the eyes cannot be +discerned. The strange coat nervously and rapidly makes three deep +inclinations before the holy image, and then to the corners of the room, +and just as rapidly begins to unravel the shawl, and by degrees appears, +at first, a thin, grey beard, then a thin, long nose, small, mouse-like, +grey eyes, and finally an immense bald head is freed from a sheepskin +cap, here and there feathered with dishevelled tufts of greyish red +hair. And when the coat suddenly and unexpectedly falls off in the +corner,--there stands before us one of the commonest, the most +“insignificant” of the “worthless lot” who, in the opinion of my +grandmother, live in this world: it is an old serf, in a patched and +torn gabardine. No sooner does the peasant feel himself freed from the +weight of the huge sheepskin that has oppressed him, than he becomes +nervously alive, sweetly smiles upon us all, bows again and again into +both corners, and, rapidly twitching his feet before grandfather, cries +out in an entreating voice: “Most worshipful one! Father! Give me a +lodging! Refresh me! Give me hope!” + +“Ah, Filimón, Filimón! Is it you again?” says my “little grandfather” in +evident agitation, trying to find his snuff-box. + +“Yes, I, worshipful man. Do not misjudge me,” says the peasant so softly +that you would think he was afraid of his own voice. + +“Ah, Filimón!” says grandfather, for some reason shaking his head in +anguish and trying to console himself with a pinch of snuff. “When will +you come to rest? Friend, is there a living spot in you?” + +It appears to us, indeed, that there is not a living spot in the +peasant: neither muscles, nor flesh, nor blood,--nothing but strong, +indestructible bones enclosed in a dark-brown skin. + +The peasant, after grandfather’s words, smiles even more entreatingly; +his grey, little eyes apparently become even smaller,--and he suddenly +grows once more enlivened and agitated; all his bony members are in +motion, and, as if seized by some unusual care, he begins to rummage in +the breast of his torn outer garment. + +He finally brings to light something that is wrapped in a dark kerchief. +He cautiously opens it with his trembling fingers and, timidly turning +to both sides, with a careworn glance places before grandfather some +old, stained papers, and again makes a low bow before him. + +“Worshipful one! I have a request to make.” + +“Ah, Filimón! Ah, Filimón!” sighs grandfather, again shaking his head in +anguish: “Why do you tempt God our Lord? If you do not care for +yourself, think of your kin. Pacify your spirit! It is enough! Enough, +Filimón! You have chastised yourself enough, my friend! The Lord seeth, +the Lord hath weighed and measured. He demandeth not complete +exhaustion. Do not tempt fate!” + +“Most worshipful man! I am going! I have to care for people! I must go!” + +“Whither are you going, senseless man? Take a breath. At least heal your +old wounds. Take your ease!” + +“Father, they are healed! Do not misjudge me! I am going--to the higher +realms!” + +And the peasant once more looks entreatingly into grandfather’s face, +and it seems to us that grandfather is unable to withstand that +entreating glance. + +And grandfather rises, his glance becomes stern and serious, and he says +with severity: + +“Filimón! Have pity on me! God will punish me, your councillor and +abettor, for you!” + +“Father, do not deny me! I will knock once more: knock, knock, knock! +Maybe the Lord will grant me---- Just this way, lightly, father: knock, +knock, knock! ‘Who is there?’ they will ask. ‘’T is I,’ says I, as +before. ‘’T is I.’” + +“How many times have you gone to knock?” + +“’T is the eighth time, father. ’T is the eighth for the higher realms. +I was driven off six times. Six times they flayed me----” + +“Dear Filimón, how much will there be left of you? Take pity on +yourself. Pity me, I pray, pity my soul. Why should I aid in your +suffering and destruction?” + +The peasant once more smiles entreatingly into grandfather’s face, and +suddenly falls down before his feet. + +“Most worshipful one! Do not begrudge me!” + +And rising to his feet just as swiftly, he nervously and excitedly +flourishes his dry, bony hands, lets his mouse-like eyes roam timidly in +the corners, and begins to speak, without cessation, as if everything is +to come down in a rain, everything he has been carrying hither with the +greatest care for days and miles---- It is one endless, intent murmur, +like the distant din of the mill water, interrupted by some sudden +exclamations that make our childish hearts tremble with fear. + +I remember how that intent murmur of the bony peasant made my head feel +as though compressed in a vise, how terribly my blood beat in my +temples, so that I was ready to burst out into sobs and run away from +the cabin,--far, far away from that terrible murmur, in spite of the +frost, and the deep snowdrifts, and the night storm that howled around +our cabin. And if that dreadful murmur that racked my nerves had lasted +one minute longer, I should have come out from under my warm fur, and +should have, indeed, run away as in a delirium. But the “little +grandfather” stepped up to us, and thoughtfully stroked our heads. Why +did he do it? He, evidently, did not notice it himself. Or, maybe, he +unconsciously wanted to ask our consent for something. And, interrupting +the peasant, he said: + +“Filimón! For the last time, absolutely. I feel it, it is for the last +time. There shall be an end! It can’t be otherwise! There must be an +end! The Lord is great in His long-suffering, that is true, but also +terrible in His anger!” + +The peasant’s face beams with pleasure, and he at once breaks off his +murmur. + +“What shall I write about?” asks grandfather. + +“Father, write the whole truth. Tell straight about everything. Hide +nothing, and have no mercy upon us: crush the blood of Judas! The blood +of Judas has begun to oppress the people! The main thing, father, tell +the whole truth about everything.” + +And the peasant solemnly raises his hands to heaven. + +“Write! I have suffered, and I can suffer more. I am afraid of no new +prison, and of no new chains. Most worshipful one, have no mercy! +Write!” + +And for a long, long time, through the speechless quiet of a winter +night and through our disturbed dreams, we see the bony little peasant, +with his entreating smile and a certain childishly naïve decision and +faith, that enlighten his whole little face, and our “little +grandfather,” who has suddenly become so serious and stern and who with +the consciousness of some great obligation is slowly and deliberately +drawing his legible semi-uncial letters on the paper. + +“Write, write, father! There is truth! There will be truth!” we again +hear the voice of the bony peasant, and the longer he watches +grandfather’s pen, the brighter, it seems, his face is growing. + +We are, for some reason, happy for the peasant and for grandfather, but +at the same time we are oppressed by a mysterious feeling of terror and +of fear, because it seems to us that our stern grandmother will soon +come out of the living rooms, and will angrily cast her suspicious +glance upon all of us “useless” and “loafing” people, and will cry: + +“Where did that worthless lot come from? Whence does God carry them? +Evidently punishments and threats do not take off all the loafing +people---- What have you found in each other? And why do you stick to +each other, like flies to honey? Well, this one has been half-witted +from her birth,” grandmother shakes her head at my mother, “but you, old +man? O deacon! Some evil will befall you, some evil will! Make a note of +my words. You will get a terrible reward for all these people!” + +But the “loafing people,” who at first are really grieved and +intimidated by the angry words of my stern grandmother, not only do not +disappear, but grow more and more. + + + + + Vladímir Galaktiónovich Korolénko. (1853.-) + + + Korolénko is descended on his father’s side from the Cossacks; his + mother was the daughter of a Polish landed proprietor. He graduated + from a Real-Gymnasium in the Government of Zhitomír, and then, under + untold hardships, studied in the Technological Institute of St. + Petersburg and Peter’s Academy in Moscow. Here he was arrested for + addressing a collective petition to the director of the school, and + was sent to the Government of Vológda, and thence back to Krónstadt, + where his family was residing. The next year he settled in St. + Petersburg where he read proof. In 1879 he was again arrested, and his + wanderings through all parts of European Russia and Siberia began. His + first stories were published in 1879, but the first to attract the + attention of the public was his _Makár’s Dream_, which deals with the + semi-savages of the Siberian Tayga. The artistic perfection of his + style, the harmoniousness of his diction, and the completeness of his + stories are rare qualities among modern Russian authors. The sadness + of his stories is not of the heartrending, cheerless kind, and rather + invites a rereading. Among his best known books and separate sketches + are _The Blind Musician_, _The Forest Rustles_, _The Old Bell-ringer_, + _In Bad Society_. + + Many of Korolénko’s stories have been well translated into English: + _The Vagrant and Other Tales_ (containing _The Old Bell-ringer_, _The + Forest Roughs_, _Easter Night_, _A Saghalinian_, _Sketches of a + Siberian Tourist_), translated by Mrs. A. Delano, New York and Boston, + 1887 (2d ed. 1896); _The Blind Musician_, translated by Mrs. A. + Delano, with an introduction by G. Kennan, Boston, 1890; the same, + translated by W. Westall and S. Stepniak (International Series, No. + 100), New York, 1890 (2d ed. 1893); the same (Seaside Library, No. + 1515), New York, 1890; _Makár’s Dream_, in Cosmopolitan, vol. vi.; _A + Queer Girl_, in Free Russia, vol. ii., Nos. 9 and 10, and _In the + Famine Year_, vol. x., No. 2; _A Saghalien Convict_ (in Pseudonym + Library); _In Two Moods_ (and _In Bad Society_), translated by S. + Stepniak and W. Westall (Lovell’s International Series, No. 178), New + York, 1891, and (Seaside Library, No. 1943) New York, 1892; _The Old + Bell-ringer_, translated by M. P. de Schatokhin, in The Anglo-Russian + Literary Society, No. 8; _An Involuntary Murderer_, translated by + Jessie Mackenzie, in Gentleman’s Magazine, 1898. + + + THE OLD BELL-RINGER + + A SPRING IDYLL + +It grows dark. Over the black, crenelated line of the dense forest +stands the full moon; it stands, but does not shine---- A small +settlement that nestles over the distant brook, in the pine forest, is +merged in that peculiar twilight, so common to spring nights, when the +moon stands pensively over the horizon, shrouded by a smoky veil. The +mist, rising from the earth, thickens the long shadows of the woods and +covers the open places with a silvery azure glamour---- All is quiet, +pensive, melancholy. + +The village slumbers quietly. + +The humble cabins barely stand out in their dark contours; here and +there glimmer fires; now and then a gate creaks, a watchful dog barks, +and all is silent again. At times there issue from the dark mass of the +softly rustling forest the figures of pedestrians, there passes by a +rider, creaks a vehicle. These are the inhabitants of lonely forest +hamlets who are going to their church to meet the spring holiday. + +The church stands on a mound, in the centre of the village. Its windows +are bright with lights. The tall, murky, old belfry is lost with its +spire in the azure. + +The steps of the staircase are creaking---- The old bell-ringer +Mikhyéich is ascending the bell tower, and soon his little lantern will +be suspended in mid-air, like a shooting star in space---- + +It is hard for the old man to climb the steep staircase. His old legs do +not serve him well, he is worn out, and his eyes see but dimly----’T is +time, it has long been time, that the old man should take his rest, but +God does not send him death. He has buried his sons, has buried his +grandchildren, has accompanied old men to their celestial dwelling, has +accompanied young men, but he is still alive. ’T is hard---- Many is the +time he has met the spring holiday, and he has lost the count of how +often he has waited for the appointed time on that very bell tower. And +there God has again decreed---- + +The old man walks to the opening in the tower and leans over the +banister. Below, around the church, the graves of the village cemetery +dot the darkness; the old crosses look as though they protected them +with their outstretched arms. Here and there leafless birches bend over +them---- From there, below, is wafted to Mikhyéich the aromatic odour of +young buds and reminds him of the melancholy silence of the eternal +sleep---- + +What will become of him in a year? Will he again climb to this top, +under the brass bell, in order to awaken light-sleeping night by its +metallic din, or will he lie--down there, in the dark corner of the +cemetery, under a cross? God knows---- He is prepared: in the meanwhile +may God grant him to meet the holiday once more. “Glory to Thee, Lord!” +his old lips mutter the customary formula and he looks upwards, at the +starred heaven that glows with a million lights, and he makes the sign +of the cross---- + +“Mikhyéich, oh, Mikhyéich!” calls out to him from below the tremulous +voice of an old man. The aged sexton looks up at the belfry, shades his +unsteady and tearful eyes with his open hand, but he does not see +Mikhyéich. + +“What do you want? Here I am!” answers the bell-ringer, as he leans over +the banister. “Can’t you see me?” + +“No, I can’t. Say, is it not time to ring? What do you think?” + +Both look at the stars. Thousands of God’s fires twinkle down to them +from on high. The fiery “Wain” has risen way above them---- Mikhyéich is +making his calculation. + +“No, not yet, wait a bit---- I know when----” + +He does know. He needs no watch: God’s stars will tell him when the time +has come. Heaven and earth, and the white cloud that gently swims in the +azure, and the murky forest that indistinctly whispers below, and the +plash of the brook lost in the darkness,--all that is familiar to him, +all that is his own---- Not in vain has he passed his whole life +here---- + +The distant past arises before him---- He recollects how he for the +first time climbed this bell tower with his father. Lord, how long ago +that is--and yet how recent! He sees himself a blonde boy; his eyes are +aflame; the wind--not the wind that raises the dust in the streets, but +some special kind of wind that flaps its noiseless wings way above the +earth--dishevels his hair---- Below, way, way down, walk tiny people, +and the huts of the village are tiny too, and the forest has receded, +and the round clearing in which the village is situated looks so +enormous, so endless---- + +“Oh, there it is, all of it there!” the grey-haired old man smiles as he +looks down at the small clearing. + +That is the way with life. In your youth you can’t see the end of it, +and there it is, all of it, as if in the palm of your hand, from the +beginning to that very little grave that he has taken a fancy to for +himself in the corner of the cemetery. Well, glory to Thee, Lord! ’t is +time for rest. The hard road has been passed honourably, and the damp +earth is his mother---- Soon, yes, very soon!---- + +But, it must be time! He looks once more at the stars, rises, takes off +his cap, makes the sign of the cross, grasps the bell ropes---- A minute +later the night air reverberates from the hollow stroke--another, a +third, a fourth--one after the other, filling the light-sleeping night +of the holiday’s eve, there flow the mighty, drawn-out sonorous singing +sounds---- + +The ringing stops. In the church begins the service. In former years +Mikhyéich used to go down the staircase and stand in the corner, at the +door, in order to pray and hear the singing. But this time he stays in +his belfry. It is hard for him to climb the stairs, and besides, he +feels rather tired. He seats himself on the bench and, hearing the dying +din of the rocking brass, falls into deep musing. About what? He is +hardly able to answer that himself. The tower is dimly illumined by the +lantern. The dull-sounding bells are merged in darkness; below, from the +church, the singing reaches him from time to time as a weak murmur, and +the night wind agitates the ropes that are attached to the iron hearts +of the bells. + +The old man bends on his breast his grey head that is disturbed by +disconnected pictures. “They are singing the troparion!” he thinks to +himself, and sees himself in the church. In the chancel dozens of +children’s voices flow together; the aged priest, Father Naúm of blessed +memory, reads the litany with a quivering voice; hundreds of peasants’ +heads bow down and rise again, like the ripe ears when the wind blows +through them. The peasants make the sign of the cross. They are all +familiar faces, and all of them now dead. There is the stern face of his +father; there his elder brother is with fervour making the sign of the +cross, and sighing, as he is standing by the side of his father. There +he is himself, abloom with health and strength, full of unconscious hope +of future happiness and joys of life---- Where is that happiness? The +old man’s memory flashes like a dying flame and a bright beam, gliding +through his consciousness, for a moment illumines all the nooks of his +past life. He sees work above endurance, sorrow, care. Where is that +happiness? A hard lot will make furrows on his young brow, will bend his +powerful spine, will teach him to sigh, like his elder brother. + +There, at the left, among the village women, stands his young wife, +modestly bending her head. She has been a good woman, may she come to +the kingdom of heaven! She has suffered so much, the dear woman. Want +and work, and a woman’s inevitable sorrow will dry up her beauty; her +eyes will grow dim, and an expression of an eternal, dull fear of sudden +calamities will take the place of serenity in her face. Yes, where is +her happiness? One son is left to them, their hope and joy, and human +injustice has overpowered him. + +There is also that rich fiend; he makes low obeisances, asking +forgiveness for the bloody tears of orphans. He fervently crosses +himself and falls upon his knees, and strikes his brow against the +floor. And Mikhyéich’s heart boils furiously, and the dusky faces of the +images look down from the walls upon human misery and human injustice. + +All that is past, all that is behind him. Now his whole world is here in +the dark tower, where the wind moans in the night and swings the +bell-ropes. “God be your judge, God be your judge!” mutters the old man +and bends his grey head, and tears gently roll down the old cheeks of +the bell-ringer. + +“Mikhyéich, oh, Mikhyéich! Oh there, have you fallen asleep?” they shout +below. + +“What?” the old man cries out and jumps to his feet. “Lord! Have I +really fallen asleep? Never before have I so disgraced myself!” + +Mikhyéich hastens to lay his hands on the ropes. Below him the peasant +crowd moves about like an ant-hill; banners wave in the air and glimmer +with their gilt brocade. The procession of the cross has made the round +of the church, and the joyous call reaches Mikhyéich’s ears: + +“Christ is risen from the dead!” + +And this call stirs a wave in the old man’s heart. It seems to him that +the flames of the wax tapers have burnt up more brightly in the +darkness, and the crowd is more agitated, and the banners flutter, and +the wakened wind seizes the waves of sound and with broad pinions +carries them up, to run together with the loud, solemn tones of the +bells. + +Old Mikhyéich rings as he has never rung before. + +It seems as though the old man’s full heart has passed into the dead +brass, and the tones sing and waver, laugh and weep, and interweaving in +a mighty stream are borne upwards, to the starry heaven. And the stars +flash more brightly and burn, and the tones tremble and pour down and +fall to the earth with loving grace. + +A deep bass cries out loud in mighty tones that announces to heaven and +earth: “Christ is risen!” + +And two tenors, trembling with the alternate beats of their iron hearts, +respond merrily and clangorously: “Christ is risen!” + +And two soft sopranos, seemingly hastening not to be behindhand, push +themselves in between the larger ones, and joyfully, like little +children, sing out rapidly: “Christ is risen!” + +And it seems as though the old tower were trembling and shaking, and as +though the wind that blows around the face of the bell-ringer flapped +its mighty pinions and repeated: “Christ is risen!” + +The old heart forgets life that is full of cares and injury. The old +bell-ringer forgets that his life is confined to the grim narrow space +in the bell-tower, that he is alone in the world, like a lonely trunk +that the storms have broken. He hears those singing and weeping sounds +that rise to the heaven on high and fall down to poor earth, and it +seems to him that he is surrounded by his sons and grandchildren, that +he hears their joyful voices; the voices of the old and young are +combined into a chorus, and they sing to him of happiness and joy, which +he has not known in his life. The old bell-ringer jerks the ropes, tears +roll down his face, and his heart beats violently with the illusion of +happiness. + +Down below people listen and say to each other that never before has old +Mikhyéich rung the bells so wonderfully. + +Suddenly the great bell utters an uncertain tone, and grows dumb. The +disturbed smaller bells ring out with an unfinished trill, cutting it +short, as if to listen to the sad hollow note which trembles and flows +and weeps, gradually dying upon the air. The old bell-ringer drops down +upon the bench in utter exhaustion, and two last tears softly roll over +his pale cheeks---- + +“Ho there, send up a change; the old bell-ringer has done his +ringing----” + + + + + Vsévolod Mikháylovich Garshín. (1855-1888.) + + + Garshín was born in the Government of Ekaterinosláv, where his father + was a small landed proprietor. In his early childhood he travelled a + great deal over Russia, as his father was in the military service. He + was placed in the Gymnasium at St. Petersburg, and there he excelled + as a student, but in 1872 he had the first attacks of insanity which + afterwards returned periodically and finally caused him to commit + suicide by throwing himself headlong from an upper story. He took part + in the Turko-Russian War as a common soldier, and while in the field + composed his first story, _Four Days_, in which he described the + suffering of a wounded comrade of his. Upon his return he wrote, in + his lucid intervals, a series of wonderfully realistic stories, many + of which deal with painful situations. Among his best are _The + Coward_, _The Artists_, _The Red Flower_, _Attalea Princeps_, and + _That Which Was Not_. + + In English translation are: _Four Days_, translated by N. H. Dole, in + Poet Lore, vol. iii.; _Mad Love, or, An Artist’s Dream_, London, 1890, + and _Stories_, translated by E. L. Voynich, London, 1893. + + + THAT WHICH WAS NOT + +One beautiful June day--it was beautiful because it was twenty-eight +degrees Réaumur--one beautiful June day it was warm everywhere, but it +was even warmer in the clearing in the garden, where stood some ricks of +newly mown hay, because the place was protected from the wind by a +thick, impenetrable, cherry grove. Nearly everything was asleep: people +had had their fill and were devoting themselves to post-prandial lateral +occupations; the birds were silent; and even many insects had sought +shelter from the heat. + +That was even more true of the domestic animals: the cattle took refuge +under some roof; the dog lay in a hole that he had dug out under the +barn and, with eyes half open, breathed intermittently, while sticking +out his tongue for almost more than a foot; at times he so yawned, +evidently from ennui superinduced by the deadly heat, that one could +hear a falsetto whine; the pigs, mother and her thirteen young ones, +went down to the river bank and there lay down in the black, thick mud +whence issued only their panting and snoring pig coins with two holes in +them, their oblong, mud-washed spines, and enormous pendent ears. Only +the hens were not afraid of the heat and managed to kill time by +scratching up the dry earth opposite the kitchen entry, though they knew +full well that there was not a kernel to be found there. The cock, +evidently, was not feeling very well, for now and then he assumed a +stupid attitude and cried amain: “What a scandal!” + +There, we have walked away from the clearing where it was warmer than +elsewhere, and yet a whole wakeful company was sitting there. That is, +they were not all sitting. For example, the old bay, that was rummaging +a hayrick at the danger of feeling the whip of coachman Antón, could not +sit at all, being a horse; the caterpillar was not sitting either, but +rather lying on its belly; but we need not be so particular about words. +A small but very serious company was gathered under a cherry tree: a +snail, a dung beetle, a lizard, and the above-mentioned caterpillar; +then a grasshopper hopped up to them. Nearby stood the old bay, +listening to their conversation with one of his bay ears, on the inside +of which could be seen dark grey hairs. On the bay sat two flies. + +The company discussed things politely, but with sufficient animation, +and, as is proper in such cases, nobody agreed with his neighbour, for +they all valued the independence of their opinions and characters. + +“In my opinion,” said the Dung Beetle, “a decent animal must above all +care for his posterity. Life is a labour for the next generation. He who +conscientiously fulfils the obligations which Nature imposes upon him +stands on a firm foundation. He knows what he has to do, and no matter +what may happen, he is not responsible. Look at me: who works more than +I? Who for whole days at a time rolls such a heavy ball, a ball that I +have made with great art out of dung, with the great purpose in view of +giving the opportunity to new dung beetles like myself to grow up? But +then, I do not think there is anybody who has such a calm conscience, or +could with such a pure heart say: ‘Yes, I have done all I can and all I +ought to do,’ as I will say when these new dung beetles will see +daylight. That ’s what I call labour!” + +“Don’t mention your labour, friend!” said an Ant that during the Dung +Beetle’s speech had dragged up an immense piece of a dry stalk. He +stopped for a moment, sat down on his four hind legs, and with his two +front legs wiped off the sweat from his tired-out face. “I work myself, +and much harder than you! But you work for yourself, or, what is the +same, for your baby beetles; not everybody is so fortunate as that. Just +try dragging logs for the commonwealth’s stores, as I do! I do not know +myself what it is that makes me work so hard, even in such hot weather. +Nobody will say ‘thanks!’ to me for it. We, unlucky working ants, all +work, and what good do we get out of it? It ’s just our fate!” + +“You, Dung Beetle, look at life too dryly, and you, Ant, too gloomily,” +protested the Grasshopper. “No, Beetle, I do like to chirrup and leap +about a little, and, really, I have no scruples about it! Besides, you +have not touched the question that Madam Lizard has put. She asked: +‘What is the world?’ and you are talking about your dung ball. Why, that +is not even decent. The world is, in my opinion, a very good thing, if +for nothing else, because we find in it juicy grass, the sun, and the +breeze. And it is so big! Living under these trees, you can’t have the +slightest conception how big it is. When I am in the field, I sometimes +jump up as high as I can, and I assure you I reach an enormous height. I +see from way up there that there is no end to the world.” + +“That ’s right,” thoughtfully assented the Bay. “But all the same none +of you will ever see one hundredth part of what I have seen in my +lifetime. What a pity, you can’t understand what a verst is! A verst +from here is the village Lupárevka: I go there every day with a barrel +for water. But they never feed me there. On the other side is Efímovka +and Kislyákovka; in the latter there is a church with a belfry. And then +comes Svyáto-Tróitskoe, and then Bogoyávlensk. In Bogoyávlensk they +always give me some hay, but the hay is not good there. And then there +is Nikoláevsk,--that ’s a town, twenty-eight versts from here,--there +the hay is better, and I get oats there; but I do not like to go to +Nikoláevsk: our master generally drives there, and he tells the coachman +to drive fast, and the coachman lays the whip on us dreadfully. And +there are also Aleksándrovka, Byelózerka, Khérson,--that ’s a town +too---- But how can you grasp that all! That is the world; I must say, +not the whole world, but yet a considerable part of it.” + +The Bay grew silent, but his lower lip was quivering as if whispering +something. That was from old age: he was seventeen years old, and for a +horse that is as much as seventy-seven for a man. + +“I do not understand your wise equine words, and, I confess, I am not +trying to catch their meaning,” said the Snail. “All I want is a +burdock: it is now four days I have been crawling over one, and it is +not yet all ended. Beyond this burdock there is another burdock, and in +that burdock there is, no doubt, another snail. There you have it all. +There is no need in leaping about,--that ’s all empty talk and bosh; +stay where you are, and eat the leaf on which you are sitting. If it +were not for my laziness, I should have long ago crawled away from you +and all your talk: it gives me only a headache, that ’s all.” + +“Now, I beg your pardon, I don’t see why?” broke in the Grasshopper. “It +is quite enjoyable to chirrup, particularly about pleasant matters, like +infinity and so forth. Of course, there are practical natures who only +think of filling their bellies, like you, or that charming +Caterpillar----” + +“Oh, no, leave me alone, I pray, leave me alone, don’t touch me!” +exclaimed the Caterpillar pitifully. “I am doing it all for the future +life, only for the future life.” + +“What future life are you talking about?” asked the Bay. + +“Don’t you know that after death I shall be turned into a butterfly with +colored wings?” + +The Bay, the Lizard, and the Snail did not know it, but the insects had +some notion of it. And they all kept silent for a moment, for none of +them could say anything sensible about the future life. + +“We ought to bow respectfully to solid convictions,” chirruped the +Grasshopper. “Is there nobody else who wants to say anything? Maybe +you?” he turned to the Flies. + +And the older one answered: + +“We can’t complain. We have just come out of the rooms; the lady had put +out some fresh jam in some dishes, and we crawled in under the covers, +and had lots to eat. We are satisfied. Dear mama stuck fast in the jam, +but what ’s to be done? She has lived long enough in this world. But we +are satisfied.” + +“Gentlemen,” said the Lizard, “I think that you are all absolutely +right! But, on the other hand----” + +The Lizard did not finish saying what there was on the other hand, +because she felt that something was jamming her tail to the ground. + +It was coachman Antón who had just awakened and had come to fetch the +Bay. He accidentally stepped with his monstrous boot on the whole +company and smashed it. Only the flies flew away to lick off their dead, +sugared mama, and the Lizard got away with part of her tail. Antón took +the Bay by the forelock and led him out of the garden to hitch him to +the barrel, in order to fetch some water, and he kept saying: “Get up +there, shagtail!” to which the Bay answered only with a lisp. + +The Lizard was left without a tail. ’T is true, after a time it grew out +again, but it always remained rather stumpy and blackish. When the +Lizard was asked how she came to injure her tail in that way, she +modestly answered: + +“They tore it off, because I had made up my mind to express my +convictions.” + +And she was absolutely right. + + + + + Ignáti Nikoláevich Potápenko. (1856-.) + + + Potápenko was born in the Government of Khérson, where his father was + a priest. He himself was educated for the priesthood in Khérson and + Odéssa, but he left the Seminary for the university, and the + university again for the Conservatory of Music, from which he finally + graduated in singing. Potápenko wrote his first sketch in 1881, and + became known as an author through his novel, _Holy Art_, in which he + depicted the literary Bohemia of St. Petersburg. His reputation was + still more confirmed by his later novels, _In Active Service_, _Common + Sense_, and _His Excellency’s Secretary_. His productions are + characterised by a healthy optimism and an exquisite humour, which + make them very pleasant reading. + + Potápenko has been translated into English by W. Gaussen, _A Russian + Priest_ (Sunshine Series, No. 86, and Pseudonym Library, No. 7), + London, 1891; _The General’s Daughter_ (Sunshine Series, No. 126, + extra), London and New York, 1892; _Father of Six_, also _Occasional + Holiday_ (Unknown Library, No. 26), London, 1893; _The Curse of + Talent_, in _Memorials of a Short Life_, London, 1895. + + + A THOUSAND TALENTS + +“Yes, my friend, I have a great mass of talents, only nothing sensible +comes of them. Yes, that ’s so. That is quite correct!----” + +“Well, well, don’t say that!” + +“Not say it? Why, but I tell you, it is the real truth!”---- + +“But how? And why?” + +“Why? That is the question---- That is, really, the question!” + +The man who was possessed of such an immense mass of talents was sitting +in a soft armchair, leaning with the whole weight of his body against +its broad, inclined back. He had a remarkably happy exterior. He was +neither handsome, nor stately, nor elegant, nor brilliant,--no, his +exterior cannot be defined by any other word than “happy.” There were +even half a dozen pits on his face,--traces of former smallpox; his +nose, which had at first been straight and even, unexpectedly began to +turn up at the point; there was not the slightest order in his russet +beard and moustaches; his brow looked too large; and he was all as white +as milk, while his face had a shade of copper. At last, his common, grey +eyes were not out of the ordinary, but everything taken together, his +whole face, breathed a serene, frank sincerity. There are such faces: +you look at them, and you want to be open with them, and to confide some +secret, to unburden your heart to them. He was awkwardly put together, +his movements were halting, and his voice was a little shrill, but even +thus he was sympathetic. In short, he had a happy exterior. His name was +Nikoláy Petróvich Bobróv. + +His interlocutor was simply a respectable gentleman, an attorney in +important civil cases, the owner of large apartments, among which was a +study, in which they were seated, with soft, heavy furniture and with +bookshelves filled with a mass of learned and instructive books. That +was Kurázhev, Sergyéy Aleksyéevich, a well-known and esteemed person in +the city. He had but lately made Bobróv’s acquaintance, having met him +two or three times, but he was already in the power of his exterior. +Bobróv had this day called upon him for the first time, and a +conversation ensued. Kurázhev outside of his practice busied himself +with “social questions,” as he called them, and that meant that he was a +live, responsive man who was interested in life and people, and who +loved to “psychologise,” that is, to rummage in the human soul. + +“I ’ll tell you why,--because I am a Russian! Yes, that ’s it,” said +Bobróv, this time not awaiting his host’s question. + +“That is incomprehensible. You must make yourself clear!” remarked the +host, looking at him with the curiosity of a professional psychologist, +as if he were ready to take the knife, in order to cut open his breast, +and take a look inside his soul. + +“Make myself clear? Well, I can make myself clear. I can and I am +prepared to make myself clear, only I shall have to go way back----” + +“That is all right. I am ready to follow you into the depths of time.” + +“Well, it is not exactly the depths of time, but I shall have to mention +my deceased progenitor, and maybe my grandmother too.” + +“Or your great-grandfather, if you want to. You have interested me with +your strange statement----” + +“My statement is not so strange, if you look at it closely. I affirm +that Russians suffer from their talented natures. Yes, that ’s it. It +ought not to be so. They always are possessed of a huge number of +talents, and that is why they never amount to anything. Yes, I beg your +pardon, you will contradict me later, but now let me---- I have struck a +good argument, so I can talk clearly and to the point. One does not +always succeed in that. Let us take the simplest kind of an example. I +had a cook,--by the way, she is still in evidence,--and she had a +husband,--he is at your service, too, and his name is Iván. By the way, +you might have guessed _a priori_ that all cooks have husbands by the +name of Iván. Now I must tell you how that Iván has surprised me, simply +stunned me, yes, sir! We hired his wife by herself, and he came to her a +week later. He stayed a while, ate some pumpkin seeds, and went away: +that was noble! + +“Some three days later he made his appearance once more, but this time +it was in the morning. He ate his breakfast with her, washed the dishes, +remained for dinner,--all in proper shape. We took a liking to him; we +sent him on some errand, I think to the apothecary’s,--he started on a +run. Well, in short, to be done with it, two weeks later he settled in +the kitchen, and all that looked so simple and clear that it never +occurred to us to doubt his right to it, and to send him off. He is +there still, but that is another matter. We soon noticed that he never +went out to work, but that he was passing all the time in the kitchen, +washing dishes, blackening boots, running on errands, eating and +sleeping. I once asked him: + +“‘Say, Iván! Do you know a trade?’ + +“‘I know all trades!’ he answered me with the greatest self-confidence. + +“‘How so? You don’t mean all trades!’ + +“‘All, Nikoláy Petróvich!’ He never called me otherwise but Nikoláy +Petróvich. + +“‘If so, why are you not doing anything?’ + +“‘Oh, well, no work has turned up---- I reckon, there is none for +me----’ + +“And you must know he was not lying, he really knew _all trades_. My +dining table became unglued; I told them to send for a joiner. + +“‘What ’s the use in a joiner Nikoláy Petróvich? I will fix it for you +in first-class shape!’ he informed me, and, in reality, he fussed with +the table about three hours, and brought it back to life. It is true, it +was rather coarse work: the glue dried up in lumps, where it could be +seen, and the heads of the nails somehow stuck sideways in the +wood,--but it was solid. My wife was about to have the baby’s bathtub +fixed. He got hold of it, straightened out the indented sides, and +somehow soldered it, and in addition painted it inside and outside +white. Of course, I must say, it was not a particularly neat job, but +passable enough,--it could be used. We had to get one of the rooms +papered over,--he again proved himself a master, only in one corner he +hung a strip upside down. Finally, when spring came, he disappeared, and +did not return for three days. When he did show up, he was all smeared +with clay and lime. + +“‘Where have you been?’ + +“‘I, sir? I have been doing some masonry.’ + +“‘What? You are a mason, too?’ + +“‘Why not? I am a mason, too---- I know all trades!’ + +“To make an end with Iván, I will tell you that he proved to be a +tailor, too, and with his own hand he made an overcoat for himself. Of +course, it was a wretched coat, but it held together over his back. He +finished up by getting drunk and beating his wife. This Iván is a +Russian, yes, sir. It is his misfortune to have too much ability, and a +bent for too many things. Thanks to that, he has learned many things, +but nothing properly, and he cannot stop, concentrate, and perfect +himself at anything. No sooner has he taken up calcimining, than the +mason is awakened in him; he takes up masonry, and he is at once drawn +to the tailor’s trade, and so on. No wonder that this man is all his +life suffering and tearing himself asunder, and that he, from time to +time, balances his accounts by getting drunk and dealing out blows to +his wife. And now it is clear to you that the misfortune of a Russian is +in the many-sidedness of his talents. + +“It is quite different with the other nations. Take, for example, a +German. Of course, a German is not naturally stupid, but he has not the +slightest talent. He has but one talent,--patience, and just see what +wonders he performs by the aid of that modest companion of his. By the +aid of this patience alone, he accomplishes in all spheres of human +activities those results that make us with all our talents hold up our +hands in wonderment. And all that only because he has but that one +talent. He knows that himself, and he begins to develop it in his +swaddling clothes. I have heard it said that German babies rarely cry. +That is so because they early get used to patience. Now let us take the +English. No doubt, they are a clever nation, but they have only one +talent, and that is their egotism in the broadest sense of the word, +namely their self-respect, their worship of themselves, their contempt +for everything that is not English, and its exploitation in their +favour. That talent is carried out by them with the strictest +consistency in every thing,--from the most trifling to the most +stupendous,--and makes it possible for them to be the leaders in +everything in the world. Yes, sir.” + +“But you have deviated a little. You had intended to speak of yourself!” +the attorney gently interrupted him. + +“No, I did not deviate. I only began that way to come finally to my +case. Now I will pass over to that notable subject. You must know that +my father was not of high birth; he was of the gentry, but of those who +are greatly impoverished. He was the manager of some count’s estate. He +had received no education, but had seen and heard much, and was a man of +practical sense. At eight years of age I felt a hankering for the +violin. Yes, sir, for the violin. It was not the caprice of a spoilt +child, but a real hankering. I remember how my heart beat at the thought +of my father buying me a violin. Well, he bought me one. The leader of +the church choir showed me the first steps, taught me how to hold the +bow and the fingers, and I began scraping. I scraped horribly, but +something came of it. When I was ten years old I was taken to town to be +sent to the Gymnasium. Here I had a patented teacher whose violin was +worth three hundred roubles, if he was not fibbing. My father paid him +in kind: he would bring him cottage cheese, or a keg of herrings, or +pickling cucumbers. I learned from him my first correct steps, and what +do you suppose came of it all? Nothing. Many heard me and cried: ‘Oh, +what talent!’ And really, I did have talent. But you understand that I +ought to have played do-re-mi-fa-sol, and nothing else, when my aunt +visited me. + +“‘Give me a tune, my darling, and I will give you a silver rouble for +it.’ + +“I began do-re-mi-fa-sol. + +“‘Well, what is that? That is not even interesting. And yet they told me +that you had some talent. What kind of talent is that? I could +understand if you played something that would touch my soul. No, I don’t +think you have any talent!’--What, I have no talent? Aunty thinks so. +Wait, I ’ll prove you differently!--And I began secretly from the +teacher to learn _As I go alone into the street_, and I played it before +my aunt; it was so touching that she wiped her eyes, and said: ‘Now, +that ’s a different matter,--now I see that you have talent!’ + +“Then I learned _The hussar leaning on his sabre_, _In a gloomy autumn +evening_, and finally, to cap the climax, a quadrille from _Fair Helen_. +Then I went back to the village,--everybody was delighted. My repertoire +was popular. No sooner did anyone call at our house, than father began +to boast: + +“‘You ought to hear him play the violin! Well, Kólenka, give us _The +hussar_!’ + +“I took up an attitude and played _The hussar_, and by degrees worked up +to _Fair Helen_. In this manner I gave concerts all summer, and I forgot +everything I had learned from my teacher, but above all I began to +despise do-re-mi-fa-sol, because that did not bring me any fame. And +thus, sir, I just stuck fast at the _Fair Helen_, yes, sir! Then, +suddenly, a passion for versifying came over me. Again a +hankering,--what will you do about that? I began writing verses +‘standing, lying, sitting, walking.’ I first did it secretly, for poetry +is a kind of love,--it seeks mystery and solitude. Here again my +accursed vanity ran away with me. My verses were not bad. I showed them +to a schoolmate or two; they took them up and carried them around, and I +became the attested school poet. The director found out about it, and he +asked for my note-book, and approved of it: ‘You have, sir, a divine +gift!’ They came to me for every solemn occasion: ‘Bobróv, write a +poem!’ And Bobróv wrote it and solemnly recited it. You understand what +it led to. Namely to this: Bobróv began to try acrobatic feats, and to +write in bombastic style, to imitate Derzhávin, and his youthful poetry +became flat. Consequently, nothing came of that. By that time I was in +the seventh form, and my breast was filled with ecstasies of a different +sort. I abandoned poetry, and was drawn to serious and clever books. At +first I drank deep from Byelínski, than Dobrolyúbov, and then Písarev +fell among us. I graduated from the Gymnasium, the university began----” + +Bobróv stopped, rose from his seat, and began to walk across the room, +holding his hands behind his back. + +“Yes, the university! I had brilliant ability, and what came of it all? +Do you know what? The devil knows what! I was attracted to science, and +I wanted to learn the history of the human race, and its creations,--so +I became a philologist, and began to swallow book after book. One of the +professors directed his attention to me, and had an eye on me,--but it +appeared to me that my country was not in need of such a science; so I +turned about, and began studying Smith, Mill, and Marx---- A year later, +behold, I was studying the law! Yes, sir! The law. And let me tell you I +showed ability in Smith-Mill-Marx too. I do not know where I got all my +eloquence, my indomitable logic, and so forth. I found mistakes in Mill, +so I would say: ‘Here and here Mill has made a mistake!’ Yes, sir! We +naturally recognised no authorities, except our own. Mill was to us not +a source of wisdom, but only an excuse for showing the depth of our +erudition before the ladies of our circle. + +“There were some good-looking women among them, let me tell you. And it +is really a wonder I did not get married then! Upon my word, it is a +wonder. For they nearly all of them, one must say, paired off, and not +just one way or other, but in legal wedlock. Then half of them went off +with their wives, that is only natural. Though we had all come together +on Mill’s platform, yet, everybody knows, life is not Mill. Yes, sir! +And thus I came out hale. I must suppose that it was so because I was +too late. The respected fellow-members had picked out all the +good-looking ones, there was only left an indifferent lot, while I, +after all, had some esthetic taste. It did not take us long to crush +Mill--that ’s it, we crushed him. It suddenly became as evident as +daylight that he was not good for anything, because the salvation of our +country lay not at all in political economy, but in anatomy and +physiology. Well, the country had to be saved at all cost, and God +forbid another man but myself should save it,--that would have been a +personal insult. + +“You can guess that the result of it was my going over to the department +of natural sciences. Just think of it! here I again found myself upon +the summit of my calling. I was glued to a chair, and the microscope was +glued to my nose. I sat there days and nights studying and analysing, +and don’t imagine that it was without results. Indeed not! I even made a +discovery: I brought to light, studied, and described some peculiar +property of the blood corpuscle, yes, sir! I do not remember what +property that was, but it produced an impression, and they even printed +my description of it in some periodical. But while I was dissecting the +blood corpuscle, a new tendency was ripening within me. The devil take +it, another talent! Nature had implanted as many of them within me as I +could hold, and each one of them was dying to show itself, and would not +yield to any other. + +“I was drawn from time to time to the paper. I used to sit by a kerosene +lamp in the quiet of the night, and sketch some scene. At times it was +not half bad, and again it was quite passable. Yes, sir! Some friend of +mine read it: ‘Oh, but you have literary talent, you ought to write!’ +Well, pictures of success, reputation, and even fame, the deuce take it, +began to swarm before my eyes. Fame! Whose head would it not turn? What +affair would one not throw to the dogs for it! And so, I was no longer +sitting over the microscope, but passed whole nights producing artistic +literary pictures. That took me from the province to St. Petersburg, +whither I hastened at once to find fame. My first experiment was a +success. They printed it, praised it, and entered it in the column of +the ‘promising.’ I was in a hurry, in a terrible hurry, I wanted to +pocket all fame at once, and, of course, I only made botch work of it, +and spoiled matters. My later works did not call forth any praise, but +were honoured with condescending silence. I was beside myself, began to +insist, to work still faster, and to spoil more and more. When an idea +flashed through my brain, I, instead of putting it away in a quiet +corner of my soul, and living and feeling it over, used to sit down at +once and work it out on paper. Something came out, but not what it ought +to have been. It turned out to be something pale, something born before +its time. Yes, sir! They would print it, but more as ballast. And yet, +there was talent, there really was,--everybody acknowledged it. But it +was something unfinished, like a phrase half spoken, a picture half +painted, furniture unpolished and unvarnished. + +“At last, one more bent! My old talent for music awoke in me, and I +rushed at once to a musical school. I, the future composer, was studying +harmony and counterpoint, and again everybody found that I had talent. +The world of sounds swallowed me. I wanted to produce and create, and +before I had reached a fugue, I was writing little songs and publishing +them---- Ah, I did not finish here either. My two songs had success, +they were sung at concerts, yes, sir, and I decided I could write an +opera. What is the use learning when you have talent? That is a good +Russian reason---- + +“And do you know what I am now? I am a man without any definite +specialty. I am a Russian who has a thousand talents and who is unfit +for any definite business. I can play on the violin a quadrille from +_Fair Helen_, I can write a sonnet, I can discuss Russian literature and +history, I know a few things about Smith, Mill, and Marx, I have some +ideas about the blood corpuscle, I possess a literary style, can compose +a song,--and to sum all up, I am head-scribe in a bureau, of course, +through protection. Am I not the same Iván? We are both Russians. Both +he and I can do everything, and yet are good for nothing. Both of us +have a thousand talents apiece. Well? He is the husband of my cook, and +I--am head-scribe! The positions are different, but the sense of them is +the same---- Yes, sir!” + +Here Bobróv rolled up a fat cigarette, gave a few puffs at it, took his +cap, and bid his host farewell. + + + + + Semén Yákovlevich Nádson. (1862-1887.) + + + Nádson’s grandfather was a Jew. His father, who had been a good + musician, died when he was but two years old, and he also lost his + mother and brothers early in youth. He was taken care of by relatives + of his, and was sent to the Gymnasium, where he devoted himself to + literature and music. His first printed poem appeared when he was but + fifteen years old. Soon after began to show themselves the symptoms of + consumption to which he finally succumbed. He went to the Caucasus, + and was later sent to the south of France. Yet, under the most adverse + conditions, he produced a series of poems of exquisite beauty, and + gave promise of rivalling the best Russian poets. Shortly before his + death he was awarded the Púshkin prize of five hundred roubles. + + _Pity the stately cypress trees_ is given in John Pollen’s _Rhymes + from the Russian_, and a few shorter poems, by Mrs. M. S. Walker, in + Free Russia, vol. xiii., No. 5. + + + MY FRIEND, MY BROTHER! + +My friend, my brother, weary, suffering brother, whoever you be, be not +discouraged: let untruth and evil have full sway upon earth that is +watered with tears, let the sacred ideal be crushed and defamed, let +them shed the innocent blood:--believe me, the time is coming when Baal +will perish, and Love will return upon earth! + +Not with a crown of thorns, nor oppressed with chains, nor with a cross +upon his bent shoulders,--he will come into the world in his strength +and splendor, in his hands a bright torch of glory. There will be in the +world neither tears, nor warring, nor crossless graves, nor serfs, nor +cheerless, deadening want, nor the sword, nor pillory. + +O my friend! That bright vision is not a dream, nor an empty hope: look +about you,--everywhere evil oppresses too much, everywhere night is too +dark! The world will grow tired of torments, will drown in the blood, +will get weary of senseless battles,--and it will raise to Love, to +unhampered Love its eyes, full of yearning prayer---- + + + POETRY + +Many years ago she descended from the quiet shades of Paradise into our +world, in a garland of fragrant roses, with a youthful smile, charming, +naked, and proud of her innocent beauty. She brought with her unknown +feelings, the harmony of heaven, and loyalty to dreams,--and her law was +art for art’s sake, and her command was to serve beauty. + +But at her first steps they tore and trod into the dust her superb +flowers,--and her beautiful virgin features were shrouded in a dark +cloud of doubts and sorrow; and her former hymns are no more! The +storm’s breath carried tracklessly away her exultant sounds,--and her +song breathes fire of her soul’s anguish, and thorns wound her divine +brow. + + ─────── + + Pity the stately cypress trees; + How freshly green they spring! + Ah! why amidst their branches, child, + Have you put up your swing? + Break not a single fragrant bough. + Oh, take thy swing away + To heights where thick acacias bloom; + Mid dusty olives play! + Thence you can see the ocean, + And, as your swing ascends, + Through greening boughs a sunny glimpse + The sea in laughter sends + Of white sails in the distance dim, + Of white gulls far away, + Of white flakes foaming on the sands, + A fringe of snowy spray. + + --From J. Pollen’s _Rhymes from the Russian_. + + + + + Antón Pávlovich Chékhov. (1860-.) + + + Chékhov is the son of a former serf. He was born in the city of + Taganróg, where he went through the Gymnasium. He then attended the + Moscow University, where he graduated from the Department of Medicine + in 1884. He began early to contribute short stories to various + periodicals, and established his reputation in 1887 upon the + appearance of his first collected volume. Of his longer stories some + of the most artistic are _The Steppe_, _Fires_, _The Memoirs of an + Unknown Man_, _A Wearisome Story_. A pessimistic vein runs through all + his productions, and all his characters seem to be fit subjects for + the psychiatrist; this is especially the case in two of his dramas, + _The Mew_ and _Three Sisters_, in which there is not one redeeming + person, and where the very language of the dramatis personæ is nothing + but a series of semi-articulated hysterical ejaculations. He is a + great favourite with the Russian reading public, but the foreigner + will lay aside his books with great admiration for his talent and with + a shudder at the hopeless condition of Russian society. + + In English has appeared but _Philosophy at Home_, in Short Stories, + October, 1891. + + + IN THE COURT-ROOM + +In the cinnamon-coloured governmental building of the county seat of N., +in which the meetings of the Agronomic Council alternate with those of +the Justices of the Peace, of the Departments of Peasant Affairs, of the +Sale of Liquor, of Military Conscription, and of many more, a division +of the Circuit Court was one gloomy autumn day assembled to take up its +cases. A local administrator had made a pun in regard to this +cinnamon-coloured building: + +“Here is Miss Justice, here is Police, here is Milice,--a regular +Institute for Noble Young Ladies.” + +But, no doubt to justify the proverb that with seven nurses a child +generally loses an eye, this building produces a heavy, oppressive +sensation in a man who is neither officially connected nor familiar with +it, by its melancholy, barrack-like appearance, by its age, and by the +complete absence of any and all comforts, either within or without. Even +in bright spring days it looks as if it were covered by a dense shade, +and on clear, moonlit nights, when the trees and the houses of the +citizens are welded into one continuous shadow and are merged in a quiet +sleep, it alone rises awkwardly and out of place, like a crushing rock, +over the modest landscape, spoils the general harmony, and stays awake, +as though it could not rid itself of the grievous memory of past, +unforgiven sins. Within, everything is barn-like and exceedingly +unattractive. It is curious to see how easily all these elegant +prosecutors, members, leaders, who at home will raise a row at the +slightest sign of escaping coal gas or a mere speck on the floor, get +used to the buzzing ventilators, the nauseating smell of smoking +candles, and the dirty, eternally sweating walls. + +The session of the Circuit Court began at ten o’clock. They at once took +up the docket, being evidently in a hurry. The cases were disposed of +one after the other, taking up no more time than a “mass without the +singing,” so that no sensible being could have formed a complete, +conceptual picture of that variegated crowd that moved about like a +freshet, of all the motions, speeches, misfortunes, truth, lies---- By +two o’clock much was accomplished: two people were sentenced to +perpetual imprisonment; one privileged person was deprived of all his +rights and sentenced to imprisonment in the jail; one man was found +innocent, and one case was postponed. + +Precisely at two o’clock the presiding judge announced that now was to +be taken up the case of “the indictment found against the peasant +Nikoláy Kharlámov for the murder of his wife.” The composition of the +court remained the same as in the previous case, only the defence was +represented by a new individual,--a young, beardless candidate for +judicial honours, in a coat with bright buttons. + +“Bring in the defendant!” ordered the presiding judge. + +But the defendant was prepared even before, and he marched toward the +bench. He was a tall, muscular peasant, about fifty-five years of age, +completely bald, with a repulsive, hirsute face, and a long red beard. +He was followed by a small, wizened soldier with a gun. + +When almost near the bench, there happened a slight accident to this +guard. He suddenly stumbled and dropped his gun, but he immediately +caught it in its fall, giving his knee a severe knock with the butt. +Either from pain or, perhaps, from embarrassment at his awkwardness the +soldier blushed crimson. + +After the customary questions to the defendant, the rearrangement of the +jury, the roll-call, and the oath of the witnesses,--they began the +reading of the bill of the indictment. A narrow-chested, pale-faced +secretary, who had grown much too thin for his uniform and had a plaster +on his cheek,--he looked like a walking clinic,--read rapidly, like a +sexton, in a subdued, heavy bass, without raising or lowering his voice, +as if afraid to exert his lungs; he was seconded by the ventilator that +kept on buzzing behind the judge’s chair, and from this there resulted a +sound that gave to the stillness of the room a soporific, narcotic +character. + +The presiding judge, who was not an old man, with an exceedingly tired +face, and near-sighted, was sitting in his chair without stirring, and +holding the palm of his hand near his brow, as if to keep the sun out of +his eyes. During the buzzing of the ventilator and of the secretary he +was thinking of something. When the secretary stopped for a second to +draw breath before beginning a new page, he suddenly started and looked +at the audience with his blinking eyes, then he leaned over the ear of +the fellow-judge by his side; and asked him with a sigh: + +“You, Matvyéy Petróvich, are stopping at Demyánov’s?” + +“Yes, at Demyánov’s,” answered the member, also startled. + +“Next time I think I shall stop there myself. I declare, it is +impossible to stop at Tipyakóv’s. There is such a noise there all night +long! They make a racket, they cough, and the children cry. It ’s just +impossible to stand it!” + +The associate prosecutor, a full-faced, well-fed, dark-complexioned man, +in gold spectacles, and with a beautiful, well-groomed beard, sat +immovably, like a statue, and, leaning his cheek on his closed hand, +read Byron’s _Cain_. His eyes were full of ardent attention, and his +brows rose admiringly higher and higher. Now and then he threw himself +against the back of his chair, looked for a moment indifferently ahead +of him, and then was once more lost in his reading. + +The counsel for the defence moved the blunt end of his pencil over the +table and, bending his head aside, was meditating something. His +youthful face expressed nothing but unchangeable, cold ennui, such as is +to be seen in the faces of schoolboys and officials who are obliged to +sit day after day in one and the same place and to see all the time the +same faces and the same walls. The forthcoming speech did not worry him +in the least. What kind of a speech is it any way? By order of the +authorities he will deliver it without passion or fire before the jury, +according to an old stereotyped form, feeling all the time that it is +colourless and tiresome, and then he will gallop through mud and rain to +the station, then--to the capital, to get soon another order for some +other county seat, where he will make another speech---- It ’s tiresome! + +The defendant at first coughed nervously into his sleeve and grew pale, +then the quiet, the universal monotony and the ennui were communicated +to him also. He looked with a dull respect at the uniforms of the +judges, at the tired faces of the jury, and calmly blinked with his +eyes. The judicial surroundings and procedure, waiting for which his +heart had been pining in the prison, now acted upon him most soothingly. +He did not meet here at all what he could have expected. Over him hung +the accusation of murder, and yet he did not meet here any threatening +faces, nor scorning glances, nor loud phrases of revenge, nor any +sympathy for his unusual fate; not one of those who were going to judge +him had turned their long, inquiring glances upon him. The murky +windows, the voice of the secretary, the pose of the prosecutor,--all +that was imbued with chancery indifference and exhaled a cold breath, as +though the murderer were a simple appurtenance of the chancery, or as +though not living men were judging him, but some unseen machine which +God knows who had introduced. + +The composed peasant did not know that they were here as used to the +dramas and tragedies of life as one gets used to deaths in a hospital, +and that in this very machine-like indifference lay the whole terror and +the whole hopelessness of his position. I am sure that if he did not +remain silent, but rose and began to plead and implore for mercy with +tears in his eyes, to repent with fervour, if he died in despair,--all +that would break against their dull nerves and habit like a billow +against a rock. + +When the secretary had finished, the presiding judge for some reason +rubbed the table, for a long time blinked at the defendant, and then +asked him, lazily moving his tongue: + +“Defendant, do you plead guilty to having killed your wife on the night +of June 9th?” + +“By no means,” answered the defendant, rising and holding the coat over +his breast. + +After that the court hurriedly passed over to the examination of the +witnesses. There were examined two women, five peasants, and the coroner +who had held the inquest. All of them, mud-bespattered and tired from +their march and from the long waiting in the witness room, sad and +gloomy, deposed the same thing. They declared that Kharlámov had lived +“well” with his wife, just like anybody else: he used to strike her only +when he was intoxicated. On the 9th of June, about sundown, the woman +was found in the hall with her skull split open; an axe was lying near +her in a pool of blood. When they tried to find Nikoláy, in order to +tell him of the misfortune, he was neither in the house, nor in the +street. They began to run up and down the village to find him, they went +to all the taverns and cabins, but he could not be found. He had +disappeared, and two days later he came himself to the office, pale, +tattered, and trembling in his whole body. He was bound with ropes and +placed in the lockup. + +“Defendant,” said the presiding judge to Kharlámov, “can’t you explain +to the court where you kept yourself during the two days after the +murder?” + +“I wandered over the field, without eating or drinking.” + +“Why did you hide yourself, if you did not kill her?” + +“I was frightened. I was afraid I ’d be sentenced.” + +“Ah! Very well, take your seat!” + +The last witness was the county physician who had made the autopsy on +the old woman. He communicated to the court everything he could remember +from his notes of the autopsy and from what he had managed to work out +as he was walking to the court in the morning. + +The presiding judge looked with half-closed eyes at his new shining, +black suit, at his dandyish necktie, at his moving lips, and in his +brain somehow stirred by itself the lazy thought: “Everybody wears now +short coats; then why did he have made such a long one? Really, why a +long one, and not a short one?” + +Behind the presiding judge was heard the cautious creak of boots. It was +the associate prosecutor who had gone to the table to take up some +document. + +“Mikhaíl Vladímirovich,” he leaned down to the ear of the presiding +judge, “that Koréyski has made a very careless inquest. The brother was +not examined, the elder was not examined, and you can’t make anything +out of the description of the room.” + +“What is to be done, what is to be done?” sighed the presiding judge, +throwing himself back into the chair: “This is an endless sandglass!” + +“By the way,” the associate prosecutor continued to whisper, “just look +down the audience, in the front bench, the third man from the left,--an +actor’s phiz. That is the local financial big-bug. He has a cash capital +of nearly five hundred thousand.” + +“Yes? His face does n’t show it. How would it be, friend, if we took a +recess now?” + +“Let us end this case, and then we shall----” + +“Very well---- Well?” the presiding judge turned his eyes upon the +physician. “So you find that death was instantaneous?” + +“Yes, on account of a considerable lesion of the brain matter.” + +When the physician was through, the presiding judge looked into space, +between the prosecutor and the counsel, and he proposed: + +“Have n’t you anything to ask?” + +The associate prosecutor did not turn his eyes away from _Cain_, and +shook his head negatively, but the counsel moved unexpectedly and, +clearing his throat, asked: + +“Tell me, doctor, is it possible to tell the mental condition of the +criminal by the dimension of the wound? That is, I want to know whether +the amount of the injury gives us a right to presuppose that the +defendant was mentally deranged.” + +The presiding judge raised his sleepy, indifferent eyes upon the +counsel. The prosecutor tore himself away from his _Cain_, and looked at +the presiding judge. They only looked, but neither a smile, nor +wonderment, nor perplexity,--nothing was expressed upon their faces. + +“Of course,” hesitated the physician, “if we take into consideration the +power with which--eh--eh--eh--the criminal strikes a blow---- However, +pardon me, I did not quite understand your question.” + +The counsel did not get any answer to his question, nor did he feel any +need of it. It was quite clear to him that this question had strayed +into his head and had escaped from his tongue only under the influence +of the quiet, the ennui, and the buzzing ventilator. Having dismissed +the physician, the court passed to the examination of the material +instruments of evidence. First they examined the caftan, on the sleeve +of which there was a dark blood spot. Being asked of the origin of this +spot, Kharlámov declared: + +“About three days before the death of my wife Penkóv bled his horse. I +was there, and as I helped him, I naturally got some on me.” + +“But Penkóv has just now declared that he does not remember your being +present at the bleeding.” + +“I don’t understand that!” + +“Sit down!” + +They passed to the examination of the axe with which the woman had been +killed. + +“That is not my axe,” declared the defendant. + +“Whose then?” + +“I don’t know. I had no axe.” + +“A peasant can’t get on a single day without an axe. Your neighbour Iván +Timoféich, with whom you fixed the sleigh, deposed that it is your axe.” + +“I don’t know, only I swear before God,”--Kharlámov stretched his hand +with open fingers before him,--“I swear by the true Creator, I don’t +remember of ever having had an axe of my own. I once had one like it, +only a little smaller, but my son Prokhór lost it. Two years before his +military service he went out to cut some wood, but he was having a good +time with the boys, and he lost it.” + +“All right, sit down!” + +This systematic suspicion and unwillingness to listen to him no doubt +provoked and offended Kharlámov. He winked, and on his cheeks appeared +red spots. + +“As before the Lord!” continued he, stretching out his neck. “If you do +not believe, ask my son Prokhór. Prokhór, where is my axe?” he suddenly +asked with a coarse voice, abruptly turning to the guard. “Where?” + +That was a shocking moment! All seemed to have seated themselves and to +have become lower in stature---- Through all the heads, as many as there +were in the court-room, there flashed one and the same terrible, +impossible thought, the thought of the probable fatal accident, and not +a person risked or dared to look at the face of the soldier. All wished +not to believe their thought and hoped they had not heard correctly. + +“Defendant, it is not permitted to speak to the guard,” the judge +hastened to say. + +Nobody saw the face of the guard and terror invisibly passed through the +court-room. The bailiff softly rose from his seat and, balancing himself +with his arms, walked out of the room on tiptoes. Half a minute later +were heard hollow steps and sounds, such as are heard during the change +of sentinels. + +Everybody raised his head and, trying to look as if nothing had +happened, they continued the case. + + + + + Aleksyéy Maksímovich Pyeshkóv (pseud. Maksím Górki). (1871-.) + + + Born as the son of an upholsterer, Górki, by which name Pyeshkóv is + best known, was brought up by his mother’s parents. He had barely + entered school when his grandparents’ reverses caused him to be + apprenticed to a shoemaker. After that he tried himself in every + possible capacity--as an engraver, painter of holy images, cook, + hawker of apples, and so forth. In the meanwhile he had an opportunity + to learn to read, and he read any and all books he could procure. + Finally he fell in with a lawyer at Nízhni-Nóvgorod who did a great + deal for his awakening. Then he once more started out on his + wanderings, and in the Caucasus in 1893 wrote his first story, + entitled _Makár Chúdra_, for a local paper. The next year he returned + to Nízhni-Nóvgorod, and here he met the author Korolénko, under whose + guidance his literary career began. Górki draws his vagabonds with a + realism that surpasses all previous attempts in that field. Unlike + Uspénski, Zlatovrátski, and the other writers who have treated similar + subjects, he has no bias in any direction whatsoever, but depicts + elementary passions at full play, quite unconcerned about the results + to which they may lead. Not less characteristic are his pictures of + southern scenes, of the steppe, the sea, and the noisy quay. + + In English translation have appeared: _Orloff Couple_, translated by + Emily Jakowleff and Dora B. Montefiore, London, 1901; _Orloff and his + Wife_, translated by I. F. Hapgood, New York, 1902; _Foma Gordyeeff_, + translated by I. F. Hapgood, New York, 1901; _Foma Gordeyev_, + translated by H. Bernstein, New York, 1901; _Twenty-six and One_, New + York, 1902; _Twenty-six Men and a Girl_, translated by B. Jakowleff + and D. B. Montefiore, London, 1902; _Tales from Gorky_, translated by + N. H. Bain, New York, 1902; _The Devil_, by L. Wiener, National + Magazine, 1901; _Makar Chudra_, by M. Mojaysky, Monthly Review, 1901; + _Tchelkache_, by Katherine Wylde, Fortnightly Review, and Living Age, + 1901; _Song of the Falcon_, Contemporary Review, 1902; part of _The + Awakening of a Conscience_, by L. Wiener, in Garnett’s Universal + Anthology. + + + IN THE STEPPE + + STORY OF A TRAMP + +We left Perekóp in the worst possible mood,--we were as hungry as wolves +and angry with the whole world. For more than half a day we had +unsuccessfully applied all our talents and efforts to steal or earn +something, and when we at last convinced ourselves that we would fail in +both attempts, we decided to move on. Whither? That was a matter of +indifference, as long as we moved on. This was our unanimous resolution, +as we had expressed it to each other, but we were ready to proceed in +every respect upon the path of our actions upon which we had been +travelling quite a while,--that had been silently agreed to by everyone +of us and, though it was not spoken of in the hearing of all, it +sparkled clearly in the grim lustre of our hungry eyes. + +There were three of us; we had but lately made each other’s +acquaintance, having met at Khérson, in a saloon on the bank of the +Dnieper. + +One of us had been a soldier of a railroad battalion, later, as he +professed, a roadmaster with one of the Polish railways; he was a +red-haired, muscular man, with cold, grey eyes; he could speak German, +and possessed a very detailed knowledge of prison life. + +People of our class don’t like to talk much about their past, generally +having more or less good reasons for not mentioning it; consequently we +all believed each other, at least outwardly, for inwardly we hardly +believed ourselves. + +When our second companion, a small, wizened man with thin lips, that +were all the time skeptically compressed, said of himself that he had +been a student at the Moscow University,--the soldier and I accepted +this assertion as a fact. In reality, it was absolutely the same to us +whether he had ever been a student, a detective, or one of the +“orleans,”--the only important point was that at the time of our +acquaintanceship he was our equal: he was starving, he enjoyed in towns +the especial attention of the police, and in the country the suspicious +attitude of the peasants; he hated both with the hatred of a powerless, +persecuted, and hungry animal, and dreamt of a universal revenge upon +everybody and everything,--in short, by his position amidst the kings of +Nature and the potentates of life, and by his inclinations, he was a +bird of our feather. + +Misfortune is the best cement to unite even the most contradictory +natures, and we were all convinced of our right to regard ourselves as +unfortunates. + +I was the third. Out of modesty, which has been my characteristic ever +since my nails were grown, I will not say a word about my worth, and, +not wishing to appear naïve to you, I will keep silent about my faults. +However, to furnish you material for my characterisation, I will say +that I always regarded myself better than others, and that I still +successfully maintain this opinion. + +So we left Perekóp and moved on, depending for that day upon the +shepherds, whom one may always ask for a piece of bread and who never +refuse it to pedestrians. + +I walked by the side of the soldier, the “student” marched behind us. +Over his shoulders hung something that somewhat reminded of a +frock-coat; on his sharp-pointed, angular and clean-shaven head rested +the remnant of a broad-brimmed hat; grey trowsers with many-coloured +patches fitted tightly to his thin legs, and to the soles of his feet he +had fastened parts of a bootleg, which he had picked up on his way; he +held them in place by means of ropes which he had wound out of the +lining of his costume, and this affair he called sandals; he marched +silently, raising a great deal of dust and blinking with his small +greenish eyes. The soldier was dressed in a red fustian shirt which, to +use his words, he had by his own hand obtained at Khérson; over his +shirt there was a warm cotton jacket, and his head was adorned by a +soldier’s cap of indefinite colour, which was poised, according to the +military rule, “with a bend of the upper circle over the right brow”; +about his legs flapped broad Ukrainian carter’s pantaloons. He was +barefooted. + +I was similarly dressed, and also barefooted. + +We marched on, and all about us extended the steppe with a heroic sweep +and, being covered with the blue, burning cupola of a cloudless summer +sky, lay before us like an enormous black dish. The grey, dusty road cut +a broad swath across it, and burned our feet. Here and there we saw +bristly stretches of harvested grainfields that bore a striking +resemblance to the long-neglected cheeks of the soldier. + +The soldier walked and sang with a hoarse voice: + +“And we sing and praise Thy holy Sunday----” + +During his military service he had been something like a sexton in the +battalion church, and he knew an endless number of hymns and chants, +which knowledge he misused every time our conversation did not flow +exactly right. + +Ahead of us, on the horizon, rose some forms of soft contours and gentle +shades, from lilac to light pink. + +“That ’s evidently the Crimean range,” said the student dryly. + +“Mountains?” exclaimed the soldier. “It ’s mighty early, my friend, you +see them. Those are clouds, just clouds. You see what they look like? +Just like cranberry sauce with milk.” + +I remarked that it would be exceedingly agreeable if the clouds really +consisted of cranberry sauce. This at once roused our hunger,--the great +question of the day. + +“The devil!” cursed the soldier, and spit out. “If only a single living +soul came our way! Not a person---- We ’ll have to lick our own paws, +like bears in winter.” + +“I said we ought to keep near inhabited places,” remarked the “student,” +moralising. + +“You said!” said the soldier angrily. “That ’s why you are a learned +man, just to be a-talking. Where do you expect to find inhabited places +here? The devil knows where they are!” + +The “student” grew silent and compressed his lips. The sun was going +down, and the clouds in the horizon displayed a variety of intangible +colours. The air smelled of land and salt. + +This dry and appetising odour only increased our hunger. + +There was a gnawing sensation in our stomachs. It was a strange and +disagreeable sensation: it felt as though the sap were flowing out of +all the muscles of the body, as though it evaporated, and the muscles +lost their vital flexibility. A sensation of stinging dryness filled the +cavity of the mouth and the throat; the head was dizzy, and dark spots +arose and flitted before the eyes. At times they assumed the form of +steaming pieces of meat, of big slices of bread; reminiscence furnished +these “visions of the past, silent visions” with their appropriate +aromas, and then it felt as though a knife were turning around in the +stomach. + +We kept on marching, communicating to each other the description of our +sensations and being on a sharp lookout on both sides,--hoping to +discover somewhere a flock of sheep, or to hear the sharp creaking of a +Tartar’s cart taking fruit to an Armenian market. + +But the steppe was deserted and speechless. + +On the previous day we had eaten between us four pounds of rye bread and +some five melons, after having marched about forty versts,--there was a +discrepancy between assets and liabilities,--and, having fallen asleep +on the market place of Perekóp, we awoke from hunger. + +The “student” had justly advised us not to lie down to sleep, but to go +to work in the night,--it is not considered proper in decent society to +speak aloud of the plans for trespassing on private property, and so I +shall keep silent. I only want to be truthful, and not vulgar, as +regards my own interests. I know that people are getting more and more +kind-hearted in these our highly cultured days and that when they take +their neighbour by the throat with the evident purpose of choking him, +they try to do so with the utmost politeness and with the observance of +all the proprieties, suited to the case. The experience of my own throat +compels me to notice this progress of manners, and I affirm with a +pleasant feeling of conviction that everything in this world is being +developed and perfected. This remarkable progress is, in particular, +sufficiently proved by the annual increase in prisons, saloons, and +“houses of toleration.” + +So, swallowing our hungry spittle and attempting by a friendly +conversation to suppress the pain in our stomachs, we marched across the +deserted and speechless steppe, marched in the blood-red rays of the +declining sun, full of a dim hope of something. In front of us, the sun +was going down, gently descending into the soft clouds, which were +lavishly painted by its rays, and behind us and at our sides a bluish +mist, rising from the steppe towards heaven, narrowed down the +inhospitable horizon around us. + +“Friends, collect material for a fire,” said the soldier, as he lifted a +stick by the wayside. “We will have to sleep out on the steppe, and +there is dew falling. Pick up dung chips and all kinds of dry stalks!” + +We scattered on both sides of the road and began to collect dry weeds +and everything else that would burn. Every time I had to bend down, a +powerful desire to fall down upon the ground took possession of my body, +a desire to lie immovably and eat the rich, black earth, to eat a great +deal of it, to exhaustion, and then to fall asleep, even if it were to +fall asleep for ever, as long as there would be something to eat, and I +could chew and feel the thick, warm mass slowly passing from the mouth +over the dried-up œsophagus into the hungry and compressed stomach that +was burning with the desire of sucking something in. + +“If we could only find some roots,” sighed the soldier. “There are some +edible roots.” + +But there were no roots whatsoever in the black, ploughed-up earth. The +southern night came upon us rapidly, and the last sunbeam had not yet +gone out, when the stars began to glisten in the dark-blue vault, and +the dark shadows grew thicker around us, narrowing down the endless +extent of the steppe that held us. + +“Friends,” said the “student” half-aloud, “there is a man lying to the +left of us.” + +“A man?” doubted the soldier. “Why should he be lying there?” + +“Go and ask him. No doubt, he has some bread, or he would not be camping +out in the steppe,” explained the “student.” The soldier looked aside, +where the man was lying, and, spitting out assertively, he said: + +“Let us go to him!” + +Only the “student’s” sharp green eyes could have discovered that the +dark mass that rose some three hundred and fifty feet to the left of the +road was a man. We started in that direction, swiftly striding over +clods of earth, and we felt the pang of hunger getting more acute in the +germinating hope of finding something to eat. We were near the place, +but the man did not move. + +“Maybe that is not a man,” gloomily said the soldier, giving expression +to our common thought. + +But our doubt was immediately dispersed, for the mass on the ground +moved, raised itself, and we saw that it was a real, live man who was +standing on his knees and stretching out his hands towards us. + +He spoke to us with a dull and trembling voice: + +“Not a step nearer, or I ’ll shoot!” + +A dry, short click was heard in the murky air. + +We stopped as commanded and kept silent for a few seconds, being dazed +by such an inhospitable reception. + +“What a r-rascal!” muttered the soldier deliberately. + +“Yes,” thoughtfully said the “student.” “He wanders about with a +revolver; evidently, the fish is full of spawn.” + +“Oh there!” called out the soldier, having made up his mind for +something. + +The man did not change his position and kept silent. + +“Oh there! We will not touch you. Give us only some bread, if you have +any! For Christ’s sake, give us some, friend! Damn you, anathema!” + +The last words the soldier spoke under his breath. + +The man kept silent. + +“Do you hear?” again spoke the soldier, with a tremor of anger and +despair. “Give us some bread, I say! We will not come near you. Throw +some to us!” + +“All right!” said the man abruptly. + +He might have said to us: “My dear brethren!” and if he had poured all +his holiest and purest sentiments into these three Christian words, they +would not have roused us so and would not have made us so human as this +dull and short: + +“All right!” + +“Don’t fear us, good man!” said the soldier softly and with a sweet +smile upon his face, though the man could not see his smile, for he was +separated from us by at least twenty paces. + +“We ’re peaceable people, and are walking from Russia into the Kubán +country; we have spent our pennies on the way, and have eaten up our +provisions, and have n’t had a bite for two days.” + +“Catch it,” said the good man, flourishing something in the air. A black +piece flashed by and fell not far from us on the ploughed field. The +“student” threw himself upon it. + +“Catch again! Once more! That ’s all I have!” + +When the “student” collected this original gift, it appeared that we had +about four pounds of stale wheat bread. It was all rolled in dirt and +very stale. The first did not detain our attention, the second pleased +us very much. Stale bread is more nourishing than fresh bread, because +there is less moisture in it. + +“Here, and here, and here!” the soldier doled out the shares with +concentrated attention. “Hold on, the pieces are n’t equal! We ’ll have +to pinch off a piece of yours, learned man, or he will have too little.” + +The “student” submitted without grumbling to the diminution of his piece +of bread by some five ounces; I took it and put it in my mouth. + +I began to chew it, to chew it slowly, barely repressing the cramp-like +motion of my jaws that were ready to crush stones. It gave me an acute +pleasure to feel the palpitating cramps of my alimentary canal, and to +satisfy it slowly and by small drops. Swallow after swallow, warm and +inexpressibly, incomprehensibly appetising, penetrated into the burning +stomach and seemed immediately to be transformed into blood and brain. +Joy, such a strange, quiet, and vivifying joy, warmed my heart in the +measure as my stomach filled up, and my general condition was not unlike +a half-sleeping. I forgot those accursed days of my chronic hunger; I +forgot my companions, being all merged in the enjoyment by the +sensations through which I then passed. + +But when I threw from my palm the last crumbs into my mouth, I felt that +I was deathly hungry. + +“That accursed one has some bacon or some meat left,” grumbled the +soldier, sitting against me on the ground and rubbing his belly with his +hands. + +“No doubt, for the bread smelled of meat. Yes, and he may have some +bread left, too,” said the “student” and softly added: + +“If it were not for the revolver----” + +“Who is he anyway?” + +“Evidently, one of our kind.” + +“A dog!” declared the soldier. + +We were sitting closely together and kept looking askance at the place +where our benefactor was sitting with his revolver. Not a sound, nor a +sign of life proceeded from him. + +Night was gathering around us her dark powers. There was a dead silence +in the steppe, and we could hear each other’s breathing. Now and then +the melancholy whistling of a gopher reached our ears. The stars--living +flowers of heaven--gleamed above us. We wanted to eat. + +I say it proudly,--I was not worse nor better than my casual companions +in that somewhat strange night. I proposed to them that we should get up +and make for that man. We would not touch him, but we would eat up +anything he might have. He would shoot,--let him! He could hit but one +of us three, if he hit us at all; and even if he did, a bullet from a +revolver would hardly kill. + +“Let us go!” said the soldier, jumping to his feet. + +The “student” was slower in rising. + +We started, we almost ran. The “student” kept towards one side, and +behind us. + +“Partner!” cried the soldier to him reproachfully. + +We were met with a dull grumbling and a sharp sound of a clicking +hammer. There was a flash of fire, and the dry sound of a shot was +heard. + +“Missed!” joyfully exclaimed the soldier, reaching the man with one +bound. “Well, devil, I ’ll give it to you now!” + +The “student” made a rush for his wallet. + +The devil fell from his knees upon his back and, stretching out his +hands, began to snore. + +“What the deuce!” wondered the soldier, who had already raised his foot +to give the man a kick. “Is it possible he has filled himself up with +lead? Oh, there, get up! Say, did you kill yourself, eh?” + +“There is some bread, and some cakes, and bread--lots of it, friends!” +was heard the jubilant voice of the “student.” + +“Well, the deuce take you, go to! Let us eat, friends!” cried the +soldier. I took the revolver out of the hands of the man, who had +stopped snoring and lay motionless. One barrel had a cartridge in it. + +We ate again, and we ate in silence. The man lay silent, without moving +a limb. We paid no attention to him. + +“Is it really so, my friends, that you did it all for the bread only?” +suddenly was heard a hoarse and quivering voice. + +We all shuddered. The “student” even started up and, bending to the +ground, began to cough. + +The soldier finished chewing and began cursing. + +“You, soul of a dog, may you burst like a dry plank! What did you want +us to do? Take off your hide? What good would it do us? You stupid +snout, damned soul! I declare! Carrying arms, and shooting at people! +You anathema!” + +He kept on cursing and eating, which latter fact much diminished the +expressiveness and strength of his curses. + +“Just wait, when we are through eating, we ’ll square up with you,” +ominously threatened the “student.” + +Then were heard, in the quiet of the night, howling sobs that frightened +us. + +“Friends, how could I know? I fired because I was afraid. I am on my way +from New Afón to the Government of Orél. O Lord! The fever is undoing me +since the sun went down! It was the fever that made me leave Afón---- I +was doing some carpentering there---- I am a carpenter---- I have at +home a wife and two daughters--have n’t seen them these three years---- +Friends! Eat everything----” + +“We will, you need n’t ask us!” said the “student.” + +“My Lord! If I had known that you were good, peaceable people, do you +suppose I would have fired at you? You see, my friends, it ’s the +steppe, and night--am I to be blamed, eh?” + +As he said that, he wept, or to speak more correctly, emitted a +quivering, timorous howl. + +“Hear him whine!” contemptuously said the soldier. + +“He must have money about him,” declared the “student.” + +The soldier blinked, looked at him, and smiled. + +“You are a good guesser. Say: let us make a fire, and go to sleep!” + +“And he?” inquired the “student.” + +“The deuce take him! What do you want us to do--roast him?” + +“We ought to!” the “student” shook his sharp-pointed head. + +We went for the material which we had been gathering and which we had +thrown away where the carpenter had stopped us with his threatening +call; we brought it back, and soon we were sitting around a fire. It +glowed softly in the windless night and illuminated a small space which +we were occupying. We were feeling sleepy, though we could have supped +again. + +“Friends!” cried out the carpenter. He was lying some three paces from +us, and at times it appeared to me that he was muttering something. + +“Well?” said the soldier. + +“May I move up to you, to the fire? My death is upon me, my bones are +aching. Lord! I don’t think I ’ll reach home.” + +“Crawl up,” decided the “student.” + +The carpenter slowly crawled along the ground towards the fire, as if +fearing to lose an arm or leg. He was a tall and dreadfully dried up +man: everything hung dreadfully loose about him, and his large dim eyes +reflected the pain that was consuming him. His wry face was bony and had +even in the light of the fire a kind of a yellowish earthy, deathly +color. He was all in a tremble and provoked a contemptuous pity. He +stretched out to the fire his long, lean hands, and rubbed his bony +fingers, but their joints bent lazily and slowly. In short, he was a +horrible sight. + +“How is it you are in such a fix, and afoot? Are you so stingy?” +gloomily asked the soldier. + +“They advised me not to go by sea, but to walk through the Crimea, on +account of the air. But I can’t walk, I am dying, brothers! I ’ll die +alone in the steppe--the birds will peck at me, and nobody will know +me---- My wife and daughters will be waiting---- I have written to +them--but the rains of the steppe will be bleaching my bones. My Lord, +my Lord!” + +He whined with the melancholy whine of a wounded wolf. + +“The devil,” cried out the soldier as he rose to his feet. “Don’t howl +so! Why don’t you give us people any rest? Are you dying? All right, +die, but keep quiet. Who wants you? Shut up!” + +“Kick him in the pate!” proposed the “student.” + +“Let us lie down to sleep,” said I. “And you, if you want to be by the +fire, don’t howl at least.” + +“Did you hear?” sternly said the soldier. “Well, make a note of it. Do +you think we are going to pity you and look after you, for hurling bread +at us, and firing on us? You mean devil! Others----pah----” + +The soldier grew silent and stretched himself out on the ground. + +The “student” had lain down before. I lay down myself. The frightened +carpenter was all bent into a ball and moved to the fire, and looked at +it fixedly. I lay to the right of him and I could hear his teeth +chatter. The “student” was to the left of him and, it seemed, fell at +once asleep, having rolled up into a ball. The soldier put his hands +under his head and lay, face upwards, and looked at the sky. + +“What a night! Lots of stars--warmth----” he turned to me after a time. + +“What a sky! It ’s a coverlet, not a sky. I do love this life of a +tramp, my friend. You suffer cold and hunger, but it ’s a mighty free +life. There is no superior over you--you are master of your life. You +may chew off your head, and nobody will say a word to you. It ’s fine. I +have starved enough these days, and have had enough cause for anger, but +now I am lying and looking at the sky. The stars are twinkling to me, as +if to say: ‘Never mind, Lakútin, wander about over the earth and submit +to nobody.’ Yes---- And my heart feels light---- Oh, there, what do they +call you? Oh, there, carpenter! Don’t be angry with me, and have no +fear! As to our having eaten up your bread, that ’s nothing. You had +some bread, and we had none, so we ate up yours---- But you are a +savage, you fire off guns. Don’t you know that bullets may harm people? +It made me dreadfully mad, and if you had not fallen down, I would have +thrashed you, my friend, for your impudence. But as for the bread, you +will reach Perekóp to-morrow, and so you will buy some--I know you have +money---- How long is it since you caught the ague?” + +The bass of the soldier and the quivering voice of the sick carpenter +resounded for quite a while in my ears. Dark, almost black night +descended more and more upon the earth, and the fresh, aromatic air +flowed into my breast. + +From the fire came an even light and vivifying warmth. The eyes became +gluey, and before them was borne, through the drowsiness, something +soothing and purifying. + + ──────────────────────────────────── + +“Get up! Lively there! Let us go!” + +I opened my eyes with a feeling of terror and swiftly jumped to my feet, +being helped by the soldier, who jerked me up from the ground. + +“Lively there! Move on!” + +His face was stern and agitated. I looked around me. The sun was rising, +and its rose-coloured beam lay upon the immovable and blue face of the +carpenter. His mouth was open, his eyes stood far out of their sockets +and stared with a glassy glance, expressive of terror. His dress was all +torn over his chest, and he lay in an unnaturally contorted position. +The “student” was gone. + +“Well, what are you tarrying for? I told you to go!” said the soldier +persuasively, pulling me all the time by my arm. + +“Is he dead?” asked I, shuddering from the morning freshness. + +“Of course. You would die, too, if they choked you,” explained the +soldier. + +“What, did the ‘student’?” cried I. + +“Well, who else? Maybe, you? Or I? Yes. There you have a learned man---- +He got away with the man, and left his companions in a nice fix. If I +had known that yesterday, I would have killed that ‘student.’ I would +have killed him with one stroke. I would have banged his temple with my +fist, and there would have been a villain less in the world. Do you +understand what he did? Now we are compelled to walk in such a way that +not a soul shall see us in the steppe. Do you understand? Because they +will find the carpenter to-day, and they will discover that he had been +choked to death and robbed. And they will be on the lookout for fellows +of our kind: Where do you come from, and where did you pass your night? +Yes, and they will catch us---- Though we have n’t a thing of his--yes, +I have his revolver in my bosom. It ’s a nice fix we are in!” + +“Throw it away,” I advised the soldier. + +“Throw it away,” said he, thoughtfully. “It ’s worth something. And +then, maybe they will not catch us. No, I won’t throw it away. Who knows +that the carpenter had a gun? I won’t throw it away. It ’s worth three +roubles. There is a bullet in it. I tell you, I would like to send it +a-flying into the ear of our dear companion! I wonder how much money +that dog got away with! Anathema!” + +“Poor daughters of the carpenter,” said I. + +“The daughters? What daughters? Oh, his. Well, they ’ll grow up, and +they won’t marry us, so there is no use talking about them. Come, +friend, let us be off. Where shall we go?” + +“I don’t know---- Anywhere.” + +“I don’t know either, and I know that it makes no difference. Come, let +us to the right, there must be the sea.” + +We went to the right. + +I turned back. Far away from us rose a dark mound in the steppe, and the +sun shone over it. + +“Are you trying to see if he has arisen from the dead? Don’t be afraid, +he won’t be up after us. The learned fellow is evidently a man of +experience, he has done his job thoroughly. Well, he ’s a fine partner! +He has put us in a nice hole! Friend! People are getting worse from year +to year, they are getting worse!” said the soldier mournfully. + +The deserted and speechless steppe, bathed by the bright morning sun and +mingling in the horizon with the sky, was unfolded around us in such a +bright, gentle, and abundant light that every black and unrighteous deed +seemed impossible amidst the great extent of this free plain that was +covered by the blue cupola of the sky. + +“I feel like having something to eat, friend!” said my companion, as he +rolled himself a cigarette out of coarse tobacco. + +“What shall we eat to-day, and where and how?” + +It was a problem! + + ──────────────────────────────────── + +Having told me this, the storyteller, who was my neighbour in the +hospital, ended his narrative. + +“That ’s all. The soldier and I got to be good friends, and we walked +together to the Kára territory. He was a good and very experienced +fellow, a typical barefoot tramp. I respected him. We walked together to +Asia Minor, and then I lost track of him.” + +“Do you ever think of the carpenter?” asked I. + +“As you see, or, as you heard.” + +“Well, and--?” + +He laughed. + +“What am I to feel? It was not my fault what happened to him, not any +more than it is your fault what has happened to me. Nobody is to be +blamed for anything, because we are all alike--beasts.” + + + + + Dmítri Sergyéevich Merezhkóvski. (1865-.) + + + Merezhkóvski was born in 1865 and graduated from the university in + 1886. He began early to write poetry, but met with no success. A novel + in verse, _Vyéra_, which he wrote in 1890, however, produced a + favourable impression. Since then Merezhkóvski has devoted himself + more especially to prose. He is opposed to the prevailing democratism + in literature, and preaches a return to the ideal of Púshkin. He has + evolved an unusually fine style for Russian literature, but his + conceptions are rather fantastic, and not always coherent. His chief + interest lies in the illustration of the struggle of two worlds, the + pagan and the Christian. This idea runs through all his critical + essays, in which he deplores the democratic spirit in literature since + Gógol, and through his trilogy of novels, of which the first deals + with Julian the Apostate, the second with Leonardo da Vinci, and the + third is to treat of Peter the Great. + + In English translation have appeared: _The Death of the Gods_, _The + Resurrection of the Gods_, and _Romance of Leonardo da Vinci, the + Forerunner_, translated by H. French, London, 1902, the latter also + New York, 1902; _Julian the Apostate_, Philadelphia, 1902; _Tolstoi as + Man and Artist, with Essay on Dostoïevski_, New York, 1902. + + + FROM AN ESSAY ON “PÚSHKIN” + +Not by sudden outbursts and by jerks, but premise after premise, step by +step, unavoidably and with dialectic precision, by evolving the one +sphere of Púshkin’s harmony, by sacrificing and killing the other, has +Russian literature at last reached that one-sidedness of Lev Tolstóy, so +suicidal for every artistic development. + +Gógol, the nearest of Púshkin’s disciples, was the first to understand +and express the meaning of Púshkin for Russia, as no one after him has +been able to do. In his best creations, in the _Revizór_ and in the +_Dead Souls_, Gógol carried out the plans with which his teacher had +inspired him. It is difficult to find a case of closer adaptation in the +history of any literature. Gógol drew directly from Púshkin, that deep +and pure source of Russian harmony. Well? Did the disciple execute the +injunction of his teacher? Gógol was the first who unconsciously and +involuntarily betrayed Púshkin; he was the first who became a victim of +the great disorganisation, which was later more and more to take +possession of Russian poetry; he was the first to experience the attacks +of the all-devouring, sickly mysticism, which was to undermine also the +creative powers of others than himself. + +It is a tragic fact in Russian literature that in departing with every +step more and more from Púshkin, that in destroying the most precious +creation of his spirit,--the co-ordination and equipoise of two +worlds,--it at the same time has regarded itself as the true guardian of +Púshkin’s legacies. Great men have no more dangerous enemies than their +nearest disciples,--those who recline upon their breast, for no one can, +loving and adoring, with such innocent cunning distort the real image of +their teacher. + +Turgénev and Goncharóv made conscientious attempts to overcome the +incipient discord within them, the ill-omened dissonance of Lérmontov +and Gógol, to return to Púshkin’s objective calm and equipoise. If not +with their hearts, they understood with their minds the heroic deed of +Peter the Great, remaining strangers to the Slavophile pride of +Dostoévski, and they consciously, like Púshkin, bowed before the majesty +of Western culture. Turgénev appears in a certain measure as the legal +heir of Púshkin’s harmony, both on account of the perfect clearness of +the artistic architecture and the gentle grace of language. + +But all that resemblance, all that harmony, is superficial and +deceptive. Neither Turgénev nor Goncharóv succeeded in the attempt to +conquer the approaching disorganisation, to return to Púshkin. A feeling +of great fatigue and satiety with all cultural forms, Schopenhauer’s +Buddhistic nirvana, Flaubert’s artistic nihilism, were much nearer to +Turgénev’s heart than Púshkin’s heroic wisdom. In Turgénev’s exceedingly +soft, feminine, and pliable language there is no longer Púshkin’s +manliness, his sturdy strength and simplicity. In Turgénev’s bewitching +melody you continually hear a penetrating, plaintive tone, like the +sound of a cracked bell,--a sign of a deepening spiritual discord,--the +terror of life, the terror of death, which Lev Tolstóy will later carry +to appalling limits. + +Turgénev has created an endless gallery of what in his opinion are real +Russian heroes, that is, heroes of weakness, cripples, unsuccessful men. +He has surrounded his _Living Relics_ with an aureole of the same +Galilean poetry which surrounds the images of Tatyána, Tazít, the old +gipsy. He has reached the highest degree of his accessible inspiration, +by pointing out the superiority of weakness over strength, of the little +man over the great, and the humble over the proud, of Don Quixote’s +simple-minded insanity over Hamlet’s evil wisdom. The only strong +Russian in Turgénev is the nihilist Bazárov. Of course, the author of +_Fathers and Sons_ was enough of an objective artist to treat his hero +without anger or bias, but he nevertheless was afraid of him and could +not forgive him his strength. The poet seemed to say, as he pointed to +Bazárov, without noticing that he was not at all a hero, but just such +an abortion, just such an unsuccessful man, as the rest of his +superfluous people, who created nothing and who was doomed to ruin: “You +wanted to see a strong Russian,--here is a strong man! See for +yourselves what narrowness and limitation of will-power, which is +directed to destruction! What coarseness and awkwardness before the +tender mystery of love! What insignificance before the majesty of death! +That is what your heroes, your Russian strong men are like! Oh, do you +not a hundred times prefer my weak, superfluous, little, gentle heroes +of Russian wretchedness, indolence, and carelessness, my magnanimous +unsuccessful men and Don Quixotes?” + +If a foreigner were to believe Gógol, Turgénev, and Goncharóv, the +Russian nation must represent itself to him as unique in history, as +denying the very essence of heroic will. If the depth of the Russian +spirit were exhausted by _only_ Christian meekness, _only_ +self-sacrifice, _only_ the poetry of the pariahs, the humbled, and the +offended,--whence, then, comes that “Divine storm,” that blissful and +terrifying grandeur, that superabundance of success, will, and +merriment, that are felt in Peter and in Púshkin? How could arise these +two demoniac phenomena of infinite beauty and infinite love in the +country of Buddhistic nihilism and wretchedness, in the country of _Dead +Souls_ and _Living Relics_ in the Siloam pool of the maimed and the +halt? Or are Peter and Púshkin not our own, not Russians? + +Goncharóv has gone even farther on this dangerous path The critics saw +in _Oblómov_ a satire, a moral. But Goncharóv’s novel is more venomous +and more terrible than any satire. For the poet himself there is in that +all-embracing artistic synthesis of Russian helplessness and Russian +“do-nothingness,” neither praise, nor blame, but there is only a full +justice, the representation of Russian reality in all its terror and in +all its beauty. In his best moments Oblómov, a bookish dreamer who with +the childlike serenity and azure chastity of his infinitely deep and +simple heart is unfit for too coarse a human existence, is surrounded +with the same aureole of quiet poetry, as the _Living Relics_ of +Turgénev. Goncharóv would, perhaps, have liked to be unjust to Oblómov, +but he could not, because he loved him; he, no doubt, intended to be +just to Stolz, but he could not, because he secretly hated him. The +German hero (he did not try to represent a Russian hero, so unnatural +did such a phenomenon seem to him) came out dead, cold, and formless. +Art reveals the secret feeling which the poet dares not express: is not +the resignation from stern life, the primitive simplicity, the wise +inactivity of the gentle hero of Russian indolence a thousand times more +noble than the prosaic bustle of the hero of German precision? From +Mahomet, Napoleon, Byron, the Bronze Rider, to a puny, hoarding, +bourgeois German, and to a gawky seminarist, a provincial tempting +demon, Mark Volokhóv,--what a sad metamorphosis, what a fall of the +Pushkin demigod! + +But that is not yet the lowest step. Gógol, Turgénev, and Goncharóv +appear as writers full of objective equipoise, health, and harmony in +comparison with Dostoévski and Lev Tolstóy. The emaciated and half-dead +Russian heroes, the Russian strong men, Bazárov and Mark Volokhóv, come +once more to life in the person of Raskólnikov, Iván Karamázov, in the +monstrous visions of the _Devils_, in order to undergo the last +degrading punishment, the most refined, hellish torture,--in the +terrible hands of that demon of wretchedness and torment, the great +inquisitor Dostoévski. + +How much stronger and more truthful he was than Turgénev and Goncharóv! +Dostoévski did not hide his dissonance, his discord, did not deceive +himself, nor the reader, did not make vain attempts to re-establish the +disturbed equilibrium,--the harmony of Púshkin’s form. And yet he valued +and understood this harmony with more penetration than Turgénev and +Goncharóv,--he loved Púshkin, as the most inaccessible, the most +opposite to his nature, just as the mortally ill man values health,--he +loved him, but no longer strove after that harmony. + +The author of _Brothers Karamázov_ has maimed and violated the artistic +form of the epos, has with unheard-of audacity transformed it into a +terrible instrument of psychological torture. It is hard to believe that +the language that still possesses such vernal freshness and chaste +serenity in Púshkin has been so transformed as to serve for the +representation of the horrible nightmares and gloomy, fiery visions of +Dostoévski. + +Dostoévski was more consistent than Turgénev and Goncharóv in even +another respect: he did not hide his immeasurable Slavophile pride,--he +did not ogle the civilisation of the West. Hellenic beauty was to him +Sodom, and Roman force the kingdom of the Antichrist. What could meek, +youthful, God-harbouring Russia learn from the haughty, decrepit, +Godless West? The Russian nation is not to strive after the ideal of the +West, that is, after universal paganism, but the West is to strive after +the ideal of the Russian nation, that is, after universal Christianity. + +Nevertheless, as an artist he is nearer to Púshkin than Turgénev and +Goncharóv. He is the only one of the Russian authors who consciously +reproduces the struggle of two worlds. It is even possible that his +dualism is deeper than Púshkin’s. Yet it is withal, to its very depths, +a discord, a struggle, a torment. Dostoévski’s great soul is like a +battle-field, agitated, bloody, full of gnashing of teeth and sobbing of +the wounded, a field on which two irreconcilable foes have met. Who will +be the victor? No one, never. It is a hopeless, unending struggle. On +whose side is the poet? We only know on whose side he wants to be. But +in those very moments when you most trust his Christian humility, his +wretchedness, and his chastity,--there suddenly happens something +unusual and evil somewhere in the dark, dangerous corner of the author’s +psychological labyrinth where he slowly, like a spider, entices and +entangles the inexperienced reader, so that you look, and hardly know +whether it is he or not, and whether it really is, or you only imagine +it to be, a terrible were-wolf, a double, or a wolf in a sheepskin. And +the great inquisitor whispers with scarcely audible, insane laughter, +which sends a chill through your body, and through the meekness of the +martyr flickers the unlimited conceit of the devil, through the +wretchedness and chastity of the pious sufferer the lustful cruelty of +the devil. + +To such monstrous insanity, to such epileptic fits of demonism has been +changed the beneficent dualism of Púshkin, the harmony of two worlds, +the divine music of the spheres that unite their voices to glorify the +One. Such is the vengeance of the vilified pagan gods. + +It would seem the limit was reached, and that one could go no farther. +But Lev Tolstóy has proved that one may go farther on the same +road,--into the abyss, into self-torment, into the terror of dualism, +into the Titanic disorganisation. + +Dostoévski to his last breath suffered, thought, struggled, and died, +without finding what he sought most in life,--spiritual peace. Lev +Tolstóy no longer seeks or struggles, or, at least, he wishes to assure +himself and others that he has nothing to struggle for, nothing to seek. +This calm, this silence and petrifaction of a whole subdued world, which +once was free and beautiful, but from the present standpoint of its +creator is to its very depths pagan and criminal, a world which +majestically evolved itself before us in _Ánna Karénin_ and _War and +Peace_,--that tranquillity of _The Kingdom of God_ produces a more +disquieting, a more oppressive impression than the sanguinary struggle, +contrition, sobs, and eternal agony of Dostoévski. Of course, Lev +Tolstóy did not suddenly, and not without painful efforts, reach the +final tranquillity, the final victory over the pagan world. But even in +_War and Peace_ and _Ánna Karénin_ we are present at a very strange +phenomenon: two elements there meet, without running together, like two +streams of one river. Where paganism is, all is life and passion, luxury +and ardour of physical sensations. Outside of good and evil,--as if good +and evil had never existed,--the poet expresses with infinite +truthfulness, with a childish and divine inability of being ashamed, of +hiding the nakedness of his heart, a thirsty, unsatisfiable love for +everything mortal and transitory,--a love for this great billowing ocean +of matter, for everything which from the Christian standpoint ought to +appear as vain and sinful,--for powerful physical health, for country, +glory, woman, and children. + +Here is the whole gamut of physical pleasures, and they are told with +fearless openness, such as has never been in any other literature: the +sensation of muscular strength, the charm of field labour in the fresh +air, the gentleness of a child’s sleep, the intoxication with the first +games, with the mirth of youthful banquets, with the tranquil manliness +in sanguinary battles, with the speechlessness of eternal Nature, with +the bracing cold of Russian snows, with the aromatic warmth of the deep +summer grass. + +Here is the whole gamut of physical pain, told with the same inexorable +candour, which sometimes rises to cynical coarseness and +shamelessness,--all the terrors of pain, beginning with the inhuman +cries of a beloved woman, dying in the agony of childbirth, up to the +terrible, crushing sound, when the spine of the horse racing in the +hippodrome is broken. What a terror, what an intoxication of unlimited +sensuality! + +How could he himself, how could others believe in the icy, reflective +Christianity, and how did they not recognise in him a great, hidden +pagan? This paganism is proclaimed in all the best productions of +Tolstóy by all the voices of the human flesh, which is fresh and joyous +in the baby in its mother’s embrace, covered with the sweat of the agony +and half rotten on the terrible bed of Iván Ilích, blooming and lusty in +Ánna Karénin, and racked and bloody under the knives of the surgeons on +the operating tables of the military hospitals. Flesh everywhere, the +pagan soul of flesh, the one of the two struggling souls of which Goethe +sings: + + “Die eine hält in derber Liebeslust + Sich an die Welt mit klammernden Organen.” + +But in these very productions there come also to the surface insipid and +offensive parts that are connected by no inner tie with the artistic +woof of the production, as if written by a different man. Such are the +murderous sophistry of Pierre Bezúkhov, and the childishly clumsy and +unnatural Christian regenerations of Konstantín Levín. In these dead +pages the mighty carnal life, which had just been welling up in a +stream, suddenly becomes stark and frozen. The very language which had +reached Púshkin’s simplicity and clearness, the greatest in Russian +literature, abruptly changes: as though a gloomy ascetic took vengeance +upon him for his recent candour, his un-Christian luxury and audacity, +with which but a moment ago had been described the torments and +pleasures of sinful flesh. The ascetic unsparingly violates the +language, breaks, maims, stretches out, and forces into the Procrustean +bed towering, intricate syllogisms. “Two souls,” that were united in +Púshkin, that struggled in Gógol, Goncharóv, Turgénev, and Dostoévski, +for ever abandon each other in Tolstóy, so that the one does not see, +nor hear, nor answer the other. + +We are at present past our suffering, we have become accustomed to all +monstrosity and dissonance, or else we certainly should have felt the +barbarity and unseemliness of the artist who, in killing himself and +blasphemously treading on God’s gift within himself, publicly recants +the best of his productions as a crime: “What is it you admire in _Ánna +Karénin_?” says he to the people: “do you not know it is a debauch, a +pagan nastiness of my soul?” The weakness of the great artist lies in +his unconsciousness, because he is a pagan not of the bright, heroic +type, but of the dark, elementary, barbarous type, the son of ancient +Chaos, _a blind Titan_. The small meek one came and placed a cunning +trap for the great one,--the terror of death, the terror of pain,--and +the blind Titan was caught; the meek one enmeshed him with the finest +nets of moral sophisms and Galilean wretchedness, and he overcame and +vanquished him. A few more agonising convulsions, desperate struggles +and outbursts,--and everything was for ever silenced and dead,--there +began the tranquillity of _The Kingdom of God_. Only rarely, amidst +monkish hymns and prayers, among icy, Puritanic discourses about the use +of tobacco, about the brotherhood of the nations, about corporal +punishment and chastity, are heard in the depth of depths a subterranean +din and hollow thunderclaps: it is the voice of the blind Titan, of +indomitable Chaos,--of the pagan love of physical life and pleasures, of +the pagan terror of physical pain and death. + +Lev Tolstóy is the antipode, the complete opposite and negation of +Púshkin in Russian literature. And, as often happens, opposites deceive +the superficial observers by their external resemblances. Both in +Púshkin and in our Lev Tolstóy there is oneness, equilibrium, peace. But +Púshkin’s oneness is based on the harmonious union of two worlds; the +oneness of Tolstóy is based on the complete disunion, disruption, and +violence, committed against one of the two equally great, equally divine +elements. Púshkin’s calm and tranquillity witness to a fulness of life; +Lev Tolstóy’s calm and tranquillity witness to a petrified immobility, +to a deadening of the whole world. In Púshkin the thinker and artist are +welded into one being; in Lev Tolstóy the thinker despises the artist, +and the artist does not care for the thinker. Púshkin’s chastity +presupposes passion subject to the feeling of divine moderation; Lev +Tolstóy’s chastity flows from a desperate ascetic negation of love for a +woman. Púshkin’s hope, like Peter the Great’s, was Russia’s +participation in the universal life of the spirit, in universal +civilisation; but for that participation neither Púshkin nor Peter +denied the native element, the peculiarities of the Russian spirit. Lev +Tolstóy, an anarchist without violence, preaches the amalgamation of the +warring nations into a universal brotherhood; but for that brotherhood +he renounces love of country,--that jealous tenderness that filled the +hearts of Púshkin and Peter; and with unsparing haughtiness despises +those peculiar, for him too impassioned, pagan features of the separate +nations, which he would like to weld like the living colours of the +rainbow into one white, dead colour--into a cosmopolitan abstraction. + +It is significant that the greatest of Tolstóy’s productions discrowns +that last incarnation of the heroic spirit in history, which for good +reasons had an irresistible charm for all those who in the democracy of +the nineteenth century had preserved a spark of the Promethean +fire,--Byron, Goethe, Púshkin, and even Lérmontov and Heine. Napoleon, +the Delphic god of strength, anger, and glory, “that wondrous man, the +messenger of Providence, the fateful executor of the nameless order, +that vanished king, vanished like a dream, like the shadow of the dawn,” +is transformed in Tolstóy not even into the nihilist Raskólnikov, not +even into one of the monstrous devils of Dostoévski, who are still +surrounded with the aureole of terror, but into a puny, low-born +parvenu, a self-satisfied and prosaic bourgeois, perfumed with +eau-de-Cologne, with fat calves, a pusillanimous and coarse-souled +French shopkeeper, into a comic general Bonaparte of the Moscow +chap-books. That is where the last step into the abyss has been reached, +when it is not possible to go any farther, for here the spirit of the +mob, the spirit of triumphant vulgarity blasphemes the Divine Spirit, +the sanctity of fate, the beneficent and awful appearance of the hero. +The most insinuating and modern of all the devils, the devil of +equality, the devil of the small and numberless, whose name is _Legion_, +has possessed the last great artist, the blind Titan, in order to +proclaim with his thunderous voice to the whole world: “Behold, here is +your hero, your god,--_he is as small as we, as vulgar as we!_” + +Everybody has understood Tolstóy, everybody has accepted that watchword +of the mob! Not Púshkin, but Tolstóy is the representative of Russian +literature before the masses of the universe. Tolstóy, the victor over +Napoleon, is himself a Napoleon of the numberless democratic army of the +small, the miserable, the lamenting, and the crushed. They dispute with +Tolstóy, they hate and fear him: this is a sign that his fame is alive +and growing. Púshkin’s fame is becoming ever more academic and distant, +ever more unintelligible to the crowd. Who disputes with Púshkin, who in +Europe knows of Púshkin more than his name? We learn him by heart on our +school-benches, and his verses appear to us as cold and unnecessary for +active Russian life as the choirs of the Greek tragedies or the formulas +of higher mathematics. The most inaccessible and mysterious of all the +books is called the book of the vulgar, the “Vulgate.” Púshkin has +become the Vulgate of Russian literature. Everybody is ready to honour +him with dead lips, with dead laurels,--who honours him with his soul +and spirit? The crowd purchases in the acknowledgment of the great the +right of ignoring them, and avenges its too noble enemies by a memorial +plate in the academic Pantheon, and by oblivion in fame. Who would +believe that this god of the teachers of Russian literature is not only +more alive, more modern, but, from the standpoint of bourgeois +vulgarity, even more dangerous, more audacious than Lev Tolstóy? Who +would believe that the irreproachably aristocratic Púshkin, the singer +of the Bronze Rider, the nursling of his old nurse Arína, is nearer to +the heart of the Russian people, than the herald of universal +brotherhood, the merciless Puritan in the sheepskin coat of the Russian +peasant? + +To what extent the heroic side of Púshkin’s poetry is not understood and +despised, is evident from the fact that two of the greatest of Púshkin’s +admirers, Gógol and Dostoévski, as if by common agreement, do not attach +the slightest importance to it. However strange it may be, if we leave +out of consideration the text-books and the dead academic recognition, +Púshkin, the only bard of the only hero in the country of Lev Tolstóy +and of Dostoévski, in the country of Russian nihilism and Russian +democracy, is a forgotten bard of a forgotten hero. + + + + + INDEX. + + + Abrék, its definition, 105 + + Aksákov, S. T., biographical sketch and extract, 216 _seq._; _and see_ + 19, 236 + + Alexander I., and his period, 5; his liberalism, 12, 16; _and see_ 240 + + Alexander II. and his period, 4, 5 + + Alexis Mikháylovich, 40, 239 + + American Constitution and Alexander I., 12 + + American War and Karamzín, 32 + + Analysis, in literature, 20; in Dostoévski, 21 + + _Ánna Karénin_, 5, 391 _seq._; and see _L. N. Tolstóy_ + + Arína Rodiónovna, Púshkin’s nurse, 122, 493 + + Art for art’s sake, in literature, 16, 20; criticised by Písarev, 386 + _seq._ + + + Baratýnski, E. A., Púshkin’s influence on, 17; biographical sketch and + extracts, 149 _seq._ + + Bátyushkov, K. N., estimate of, 13 _seq._; biographical sketch and + extracts, 73 _seq._; _and see_ 16, 81 + + Beecher-Stowe, Russian, 297 + + Belles-lettres, peculiar course of, in Russia, 6 _seq._ + + Bestúzhev, A. A., biographical sketch and extract, 102 _seq._; _and + see_ 4 + + Boborýkin, 5 + + _Borís Godunóv_, by Púshkin, 143 _seq._; _and see_ 16 + + Bowring, Sir John, not the first translator from the Russian, v + + Boyán, 70 + + Bronze Rider, The, Peter the Great so called, 123, 493 + + Byelínski, V. G., and the Natural School, 4, 19; and Koltsóv, 176; + biographical sketch and extract, 205 _seq._; _and see_ 5, 6, 9, 186, + 389, 492 + + Bylínas, by A. K. Tolstóy, 246 + + Byron, his influence, on Russian literature, 8, 10, 16, 17; on + Púshkin, 16; on Kozlóv, 68; on Lérmontov, 155 + + Byzantine period, 18 + + + Catherine II., 12, 239 + + Censorship, and literature, 6; after 1848, 20; _and see_ 303 + + Chékhov, A. P., biographical sketch and extract, 459 _seq._; _and see_ + 5 + + Chernyshévski, 5, 389 + + Church-Slavic, and Shishkóv, 12; and Karamzín, 28 + + _Cloak, The_, prototype of later novels, 19 + + Comedy, Griboyédov’s, 17; and see _Griboyédov_, _Gógol_ + + Cosmopolitanism of the newer Russian literature, 23 + + _Crime and Punishment_, 5; and see _Dostoévski_ + + Crimean War and literature, 5 + + Criminals, portrayed in literature, 21; and see _Dostoévski_ + + Critics, evolution of, 5; and see _Byelínski_, _Dobrolyúbov_, + _Merezhkóvski_, _Písarev_ + + Culture in nineteenth century, 7 + + + Danilévski, 22 + + _Dead Souls_, 4, 18; and see _Gógol_ + + Death, early, of literary men, 6 + + Decembrist conspiracy, marking an epoch, 5; and Rylyéev, 86; _and see_ + 15, 102 + + Délvig, A. A., Púshkin’s influence on, 17; predecessor of Koltsóv, 18; + biographical sketch and extracts, 120 _seq._ + + Democracy, Russian, defined, 9; in the forties, 20, 21; Dostoévski’s, + 21; and Nekrásov, 22 + + Democratic critics, their effect on poetry, 4 + + Democratisation of Russian society, 9 + + _Demon, The_, 17; and see _Lérmontov_ + + Derzhávin, 12, 16 + + Desyatína = various land measures, from 3-5 acres, _passim_ + + Didacticism passing away, 23 + + Disenchantment in Russian literature, 10 _seq._ + + Dmítriev, and Karamzín, 27; _and see_ 16, 176, 208 + + Dobrolyúbov, N. A., and _Oblómov_, 9; biographical sketch and extract, + 271 _seq._; _and see_ 5, 6, 389 + + Dolgorúki, I. M., 16 + + Dolgorúki, Princess, 68 + + _Domostróy_, 238 + + Dostoévski, F. M., estimate of, 21; biographical sketch and extract, + 322 _seq._; _and see_ 4, 5, 19, 81, 296 + + Drama, Ostróvski’s, 22, 369 _seq._; Chékhov’s, 459; and see _Comedy_ + + + Eighteenth century in literature, 12 + + Eighties, characterisation of period since, 11 + + Emancipation of serfs, due to literary propaganda, 6; and Turgénev, 21 + + England, 73 _seq._ + + English, literature compared with Russian, 3; aristocracy compared + with Russian nobility, 8; and Russian literary styles, 13; people + and Karamzín, 32 + + Enthusiasm, in Russian literature, 8; of Russian youths, 10 + + _Evgéni Onyégin_, 16, 17; and see _Púshkin_ + + + Fables and Krylóv, 14, 41 _seq._ + + _Family Chronicle, The_, 19; and see _Aksákov_ + + _Fathers and Sons_, 4, 8, 9; and see _Turgénev_ + + Fet, 4, 17, 391; and see _Shenshín_ + + Fifties, the, 4 + + Filarét, 40 + + Flaubert, 484 + + Folktales, naturalism in, 18 + + Fon-Vízin, 27 + + Forties, the novelists of the, 4 + + Forty years, apogee reached by literary men at, 6 + + France, its influence on Russian literature, 19 + + French, and Russian literary styles, 13; realism, compared with + Russian, 20 + + + Gaj, 241 + + Garshín, V. M., biographical sketch and extract, 443 _seq._; _and see_ + 6 + + German, Romanticism in Russia, 8; influence, 15, 19; philosophy in the + forties, 20 + + Gértsen, A. I., biographical sketch and extract, 236 _seq._; estimate + by Dobrolyúbov, 272 _seq._; _and see_ 242 + + Glínka, F. N., 78 _seq._ + + Gnyédich, 14 + + Goethe, 492 + + Gógol, N. V., novelist of the forties, 4; obscuring Púshkin, 16; + estimate of, 18; marks end of older writers, 20; compared with + Tolstóy, 21; and Naryézhny, 49; biographical sketch and extracts, + 185 _seq._; and Byelínski, 206 _seq._; and Turgénev, 281; and + Dostoévski, 323; estimate of, by Merezhkóvski, 483 _seq._; _and see_ + 4, 111, 156, 206, 217, 310, 369, 379 + + Goncharóv, I. A., estimate of, 21; biographical sketch and extract, + 259 _seq._; and Dobrolyúbov, 271 _seq._; estimate of, by + Merezhkóvski, 484 _seq._; _and see_ 4, 9, 339 + + Górki, M., 5, 23; and see _Pyeshkóv_ + + Government and progress, 10 + + Gray’s _Elegy_ and Zhukóvski, 54 + + Griboyédov, A. S., estimate of, 17; biographical sketch and extract, + 92 _seq._; _and see_ 4, 9 + + Grigoróvich, D. V., and peasant in literature, 5; biographical sketch + and extract, 296 _seq._ + + + Hamlets in Russian life, 21 + + Hegel, his influence on Russian literature, 19; and Byelínski, 206 + + Heine, 492 + + _Hero of our Time_, 17; and see _Lérmontov_ + + Herzen, see _Gértsen_ + + History and Karamzín, 27 + + + _Iliad_ in Russian, 14 + + _Intelligence Comes to Grief_, 17; and see _Griboyédov_ + + Italian poetry, in Russian, 14 + + Ivan III., 40, 112 + + Ivan IV., 40, 246 _seq._ + + Izmáylov, A. B., biographical sketch and extracts, 46 _seq._; _and + see_ 14 + + + Jefferson, Thomas, and Alexander I., 12 + + _Journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow_, 12 + + Juvenal, Nekrásov called the Russian, 347 + + + Karamzín, N. M., compared with Púshkin, 3; and Shishkóv, 4; and + literary style, 13; biographical sketch and extracts, 27 _seq._; + _and see_ 5, 12, 14-16, 55, 81, 208, 217, 240 + + Khomyakóv, A. S., and Slavophiles, 19; biographical sketch and + extracts, 229 _seq._; _and see_ 236, 239 + + Koltsóv, A. V., estimate of, 18; biographical sketch and extracts, + 176; _and see_ 22, 120, 361 + + Korolénko, V. G., biographical sketch and extracts, 436; _and see_ 5, + 468 + + Kozlóv, I. I., biographical sketch and extracts, 67 _seq._ + + Krylóv, I. A., biographical sketch and extracts, 41 _seq._; _and see_ + 14, 16 + + + La Fontaine and Krylóv, 14 + + Lazhéchnikov, I. I., biographical sketch and extract, 111 _seq._; _and + see_ 4 + + Lérmontov, M. Y., estimate of, 17; biographical sketch and extracts, + 155 _seq._; compared with Ogarév, 242; and Dobrolyúbov, 272 _seq._; + estimate of, by Merezhkóvski, 484 _seq._; _and see_ 3, 4, 6, 123 + + Levítov, A. I., biographical sketch and extract, 417 _seq._; _and see_ + 22 + + Lewis, W. D., first translator into English from the Russian, v + + Literary language and Karamzín, 13 + + Literature and progress, 10 + + Little-Russian authors, 18, 49, 185 + + Lyapunóv, 240 + + Lyceum at Tsárskoe-Seló, 7 + + + Marlínski, see _Bestúzhev_ + + Masonic societies, 12, 27 + + Maturity, early, of literary talent, 6 + + Máykov, A. N., biographical sketch and extracts, 339 _seq._; + criticised by Písarev, 386 _seq._; _and see_ 4, 17 + + Máykov, V. I., 339 + + _Memoirs of a Huntsman_, and liberation of serfs, 6; and see + _Turgénev_ + + Merezhkóvski, D. S., and didacticism, 23; biographical sketch and + extract, 482 _seq._ + + Merzlyakóv, 16 + + Middle class, and culture, 8; in literature, 22 + + Moscow, circles in the forties, 19; merchant class, 22, 369 + + Muravév, 73 + + + Nádson, S. Y., biographical sketch and extracts, 457 _seq._; _and see_ + 6 + + Napoleon, in Russian literature, 63 _seq._; _and see_ 14 _seq._, 492 + + Naryézhny, V. T., biographical sketch and extract, 49 _seq._; _and + see_ 18 + + Natural School, and Byelínski, 4; and Gógol, 186; defined by + Byelínski, 206 _seq._; _and see_ 18 + + Naturalism in Russian literature, 18 + + Negation, in Russian literature, 5, 8; and Tolstóy, 21 + + Nekrásov, N. A., his influence on poetry, 4; and democracy, 22; + biographical sketch and extracts, 347 _seq._; _and see_ 120, 234, + 361, 365 + + Neledínski, 16 + + Nicholas I., literature under, 3, 5; and reaction, 20; and + Slavophilism, 240 _seq._; _and see_ 240 + + Nihilism defined, by Turgénev, 283 _seq._; by Merezhkóvski, 485 + + Nikítin, Afanási, 114 + + Nikítin, I. S., biographical sketch and extracts, 361 _seq._; _and + see_ 6, 22 + + Nobility and culture, 7 + + Novel, the Russian, 17, 18 + + Novelists, of the forties, 4; of the people, 22 + + Nóvikov, 27 + + + _Oblómov_, as a type of Russians, 9; and see _Goncharóv_ + + Ogarév, N. P., biographical sketch and extracts, 242 _seq._; _and see_ + 236 + + Optimism in Russian literature, 448 + + Ostróvski, A. N., biographical sketch and extract, 369 _seq._; _and + see_ 22 + + Ózerov, 12, 241 + + + Pan, a Little-Russian (and Polish) word = Mr., 49 _seq._ + + Panslavism, 238 _seq._; and see _Slavophilism_ + + Peasant, in literature, 5; in Turgénev’s sketches, 20; and Byelínski, + 213 _seq._; and Uspénski, 408 _seq._; _and see_ 176 + + People, its definition, 22 _seq._ + + Periods, in literature, 3 _seq._; by reigns, 5 + + Pessimism, in the forties, 20; and Baratýnski, 149 + + Peter the Great, estimate of, by Merezhkóvski, 483 _seq._; _and see_ + 7, 18, 40, 64, 123, 341 + + Philosophy, its weakness in Russian literature, 9 + + Písarev, D. I., biographical sketch and extract, 385 _seq._; _and see_ + 6, 9 + + Písemski, A. F., biographical sketch and extract, 310 _seq._; _and + see_ 4, 22 + + Pleshchéev, A. N., biographical sketch and extracts, 365 _seq._ + + Poetry, Zhukóvski’s conception of, 55; _and see_ 4 + + Politics and literature, 6, 11 + + Polónski, Y. P., biographical sketch and extracts, 303 _seq._; _and + see_ 4, 17 + + Pomyalóvski, and peasant in literature, 5 + + Populists, 10 + + Potápenko, I. N., biographical sketch and extract, 448 _seq._; _and + see_ 5 + + Progress, carried by youths, 9 _seq._; and Turgénev, 20; of Russian + literature in nineteenth century, 23 + + Protest an important note in Russian literature, 8 + + Pud, measure of weight = about 36 lbs., _passim_ + + Púshkin, A. S., and Byron, 10; estimate, 16 _seq._; renewal of his + cult, 17; and naturalism, 18; and Merezhkóvski, 23; and Bátyushkov, + 73; his death, and Lérmontov, 156; biographical sketch and extracts, + 122 _seq._; and Dobrolyúbov, 272 _seq._; estimate of, by + Merezhkóvski, 483 _seq._; _et passim_ + + Pyeshkóv, A. M., biographical sketch and extract, 467 _seq._ + + + Radíshchev, 12 + + Reaction, periods of, in literature, 11; after 1848, 20 + + Realism and Turgénev, 20 + + _Revizór, The_, 188; and see _Gógol_ + + Romanticism, and novels, 4; early, in Russia, 8; and Zhukóvski, 14, + 54; and Púshkin, 16; and Gógol, 19; and Bestúzhev, 102; and + Byelínski, 207; and Turgénev, 280 + + Russian language, 13, 28 + + Russian literature compared with English, 3 + + Ryeshétnikov, 22 + + Rylyéev, K. F., and Decembrist conspiracy, 15; Púshkin’s influence on, + 17; biographical sketch and extracts, 86 _seq._; _and see_ 14, 102 + + + Saltykóv, M. B., and satire, 22; and Dobrolyúbov, 272 _seq._; + biographical sketch and extract, 379 _seq._; and Písarev, 391; _and + see_ 386 + + Satire and Saltykóv, 22; and see _Saltykóv_ + + Scepticism in the forties, 20 + + Schaden’s school, 27 + + Schelling, his influence on Russian literature, 19, 205 + + Schools and culture, 7 + + Schopenhauer, 484 + + Scott, Sir Walter, his influence on Russian novel, 4 + + Sentimentalism, 27 + + Seventies in literature, 22 + + Shakspere, his influence on Púshkin, 16; and Karamzín, 31 + + Shchedrín, see _Saltykóv_ + + Shcherbátov, 13, 27 + + Shebúyev, 240 + + Shenshín, A. A., biographical sketch and extracts, 319 _seq._ + + Shishkóv, his antiquated style, 4; and Church-Slavic, 12, 28; and + Aksákov, 217 + + Slavophiles, their enthusiasm, 10; studying customs, 22; defined by + Gértsen, 237 _seq._; and Ostróvski 369; _and see_ 13, 236, 484 + + Slavophilism due to German philosophy, 19 + + Soilers, 10 + + Sons and fathers, 10 + + Styles of language, 12 _seq._; _and see_ 5 + + + Talent not concentrated, 9 + + Tasso and Bátyushkov, 14, 73, 75 _seq._ + + Tatíshchev, 27 + + Theatre and Ostróvski, 369 + + Theology and literature, Khomyakóv’s, 230 + + Tolstóy, A. K., biographical sketch and extracts, 245 + + Tolstóy, L. N., novelist of the forties, 4; departing from reality, 5; + as negator, 9; estimate of, 21; biographical sketch and extracts, + 391 _seq._; estimate of, by Merezhkóvski, 483 _seq._; _and see_ 19, + 81 + + Tolstóyists, 392 + + Tradition, absence of, in home life, 7; in school, 8 + + Tsárskoe-Seló, lyceum at, 7 + + Tugendbund in Russia, 15 + + Turgénev, I. S., novelist of the forties, 4; and emancipation of the + slaves, 6; a Westerner, 19; estimate of, 20 _seq._; and style, 21; + and Dobrolyúbov, 272 _seq._; biographical sketch and extracts, 280 + _seq._; estimate of, by Merezhkóvski, 484 _seq._; _and see_ 9, 234, + 303, 385 + + Tyútchev, F. I., biographical sketch and extracts, 234; _and see_ 417 + + + Uspénski, G. I., and peasant in literature, 5; biographical sketch and + extract, 408 _seq._; _and see_ 22, 428, 468 + + Uvárov, Count S. S. (lived 1786-1855), famous for his perfervid + loyalty to the throne, 241 + + + Venevítinov, 17 + + Vyázemski, P. A., his literary death, 4; biographical sketch and + extracts, 81 _seq._ + + + _War and Peace_, 391 _seq._; and see _L. N. Tolstóy_ + + Western ideals, in Russia, 7, 19; and Turgénev, 20 + + _Word of Igor’s Armament, The_, modernised by Máykov, 340 + + + Yazýkov, N. M., Púshkin’s influence on, 17; biographical sketch and + extract, 152 _seq._ + + Young men, and school traditions, 7; in cultural movements, 9 + + + Zagóskin, 240 + + Zhukóvski, V. A., and Romanticism, 14; biographical sketch and + extracts, 54 _seq._; _and see_ 3, 16, 67, 68, 81, 152, 186 + + Zlatovrátski, N. N., biographical sketch and extracts, 427 _seq._; + _and see_ 22, 468 + + + + + WORKS IN LITERATURE + + ────────────── + + THE LITERARY HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. + + By MOSES COIT TYLER, Professor of American History, Cornell + University. Two volumes, sold separately. 8^o, each, $3.00 + Volume I., 1763-1776; Volume II., 1776-1783. + +“Professor Tyler’s newest work is rich, stimulating, informing, and +delightful. And it is not only fascinating, itself, but it is a luminous +guide into the whole abundant, varied, and alluring field of our +revolutionary literature: poetry, belles-lettres, biography, history, +travel and crackling controversy.”--GEORGE W. CABLE in _Current +Literature_. + + A HISTORY OF AMERICAN LITERATURE DURING THE COLONIAL TIME. + + By MOSES COIT TYLER, New edition, revised. Two volumes, sold + separately. 8^o, each, $2.50 + Volume I., 1607-1676; Volume II., 1676-1765. + Agawam edition, 2 vols. in one, 8^o, half leather $3.00 + + THE LITERARY MOVEMENT IN FRANCE DURING THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. + + By GEORGES PELLISSIER. Authorized English version by ANNE G. BRINTON, + together with a General Introduction. 8^o. + +The eminent French critic M. Ferdinand Brunetière says of this: “M. +Pellissier’s work is no less the picture than the history of +contemporary literature. In addition, it is also the philosophy of, or +rather describes, the evolution of the literary movement of our +country.” + + A HISTORY OF GERMAN LITERATURE. + + By JOHN G. ROBERTSON, Professor in the University of + Strassburg. 8^o, pp. xxviii. + 635. _Net_, $3.50 + +“Professor Robertson deserves high praise for the work he has done. It +shows wide reading and painstaking scholarship, and both English and +American students of German literature are to be congratulated upon the +publication of so good a book.”--_Dial._ + + THE HISTORY OF FRENCH LITERATURE. + + I. From its Origin to the Renaissance. + II. From the Renaissance to the Close of the Reign of Louis XIV. + III. From the Reign of Louis XIV. to that of Napoleon III. + + By HENRY VAN LAUN. Three vols. in one. Half leather, cloth + sides, 8^o, pp. 342, 392, 467 $3.50 + +“It is full of keenest interest for every person who knows or wishes to +learn any thing of French literature, or of French literary history and +biography--scarcely any book of recent origin, indeed, is better fitted +than this to win general favor with all classes of persons.”--_N. Y. +Evening Post._ + + AMERICAN LITERATURE, 1607-1885. + + By Prof. CHARLES F. RICHARDSON, of Dartmouth College. Two + vols., 8^o, pp. xx. + 535, 456 $6.00 + Popular edition. Two vols. in one, half bound, 8^o, pp. xx. + + 992, $3.50 + Part I.--The Development of American Thought. + Part II.--American Poetry and Fiction. + +“It is acute, intelligent, and original, showing true critical instinct +and a high order of literary culture.”--_Indianapolis Journal._ + + ────────────── + + G. P. 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