1k-
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 with Photogravure Frontispieces
PAT 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
Anthology of Russian
From the Earliest Period to the Present Time
By
Leo Wiener
" 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 01 what: H taking place at home ?
But it is unthinkable that such a language should not be
given to a great nationpART II
TURGNEV.
The Nineteenth Century
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
Tlbe Knickerbocker press
1903
/
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
Ube Ifcntcfeerbocfcer press
1903
PREFACE
/CONSIDERATIONS of space compel ine to give but
\^s a small selection of authors from the last two dec-
ades 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 Byelmski,
Dobrolyubov, Pfsarev, and Merezhkovski illustrate the evo-
lution 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 resume" of all the mat-
ter 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 anno-
tations, 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 interest-
ing 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 pub-
lishers 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 i
THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 25
Karamzin (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 Liza .......... 34
History of the Russian Empire. Introduction . . 37
Kryl6v (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
Izmaylov (1779-1831) 46
The Drunkard's Vow -47
The Canary and the Nightingale 47
The Two Cats 48
Narye"zhny (1780-1825) . . 49
The Two Ivans ; or, The Passion for Litigation . . 49
Zhuk6vski (1783-1852) 54
Svyetldna 55
The Minstrel in the Russian Camp 63
Kozl6v (1779-1840) 67
Solitude 68
Kiev 69
The Black Monk 70
viii Contents
PAGE
Batyushkov (1787-1855) 73
The Friend's Shadow 73
The Dying Tasso 75
Glinka (1788-1880) 7
Moscow 79
The Search for God 80
Prince Vydzemski (1792-1878) 81
The Samovar 82
To My Three Absent Friends 84
Death Reaps the Harvest of Life 85
Rylyeev (1796-1826) 86
Voynar6vski 87
Ivdn Susdnin 88
Griboye'dov (1795-1829) 92
Intelligence Comes to Grief 93
Bestuzhev (Marlinski) (1797-1837) 102
Ammaldt Bek 102
Lazhe'chnikov (1794-1869) in
The Heretic 112
Baron Dlvig (1798-1831) . . . . . . .120
Gloomy Thoughts 120
Sang a little bird, and sang 121
Ah, you night, you little night 122
Pushkin (1799-1837) 122
The Captain's Daughter 125
Evge'ni Onygin. Tatydna's Letter . . . .131
The Bakhchisardy Fountain 133
The Poison-Tree 135
The Bird 136
The Prophet 137
The Talisman 138
The Lay of the Wise Olg 139
To the Slanderers of Russia 142
Boris Godun6v 143
Demons .......... 147
Baratynski (1800-1844) 149
Finland 150
Spring 151
Truth 151
Yazykov (1803-1846) 152
The Sailor 153
The Storm 154
To the Poet 155
L^rmontov (1814-1841) 155
Contents ix
PAGE
A Hero of Our Times. Maksim Maksimych . . . 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
Kolts6v (1808-1842) 176
First Love 176
The Abundant Harvest 177
The Forest 179
Betrayed by a Bride 181
The Mower 182
G6gol (1809-1852) 185
The Dnieper 187
The Reviz6r . 188
Dead Souls. Mrs. Kor6bochka 199
Byelinski (1811-1848) 205
The Natural School 206
Aksdkov (1791-1859) 216
The Family Chronicle 217
Khomyak6v (1804-1860) 229
To My Children 230
The Eagle . . 231
Kiev 232
Tyutchev (1803-1873) 234
Scarce cooled from midday heat 234
The Spring-Storm 235
I suffer still from anguished longing .... 235
Sunrise 235
Ge"rtsen (Herzen) (1812-1870) . . . . . . . 236
Slavophiles and Panslavism ...... 237
OgareV (1813-1877) 242
To Iskdnder 242
Monologues 244
The Village Watchman 244
Count A. K. Tolst6y (1817-1875) 245
Prince Sere"bryany ........ 246
The Death of Ivan the Terrible 255
The Kurgan 257
Gonchar6v (1812-1891) 259
Contents
PACK
Obl6mov . ...... . . . . ._. 260
Dobrolyubov (1836-1861) . . . . . . .271
\VhatisObl6movism? . 272
Turge"nev (1818-1883) 280
Fathers and Sons . 282
Poems in Prose. Nature 295
Grigor6vich (1822-1900) 296
The Fishermen . . . ... .' 297
Pol6nski (1820-1898) . . ...'... . .303
The Birds 303
Night in the Crimea . . . ... . . 304
Love scared thee not 305
Musician Grasshopper ....,,. 305
Pisemski (1820-1881) . 310
The Old Proprietress , . 311
Shenshfn (Pet) (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
Dostoevski (1821-1881) . . 322
Crime and Punishment 323
A. N. Maykov (1821-1898) 339
The Peris . . . . . . . . ... 340
Who Was He? 341
The Marble Faun 342
Three Deaths. The Death of Seneca and of Lucius . 344
Nekrasov (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
Nikitin (1824- 1861) 361
Burldk 361
The Gaffer 364
Pleshche"ev (1825-1894) 365
Forward 366
My Country 367
A Legend 367
Spring . 368
Ostr6vski (1823-1886) 369
Contents xi
FACE
The Storm 369
Saltyk6v (Shchedrin) (1826-1889) 379
Beyond the Border 380
Pisarev (1841- 1868) 385
Flowers of Harmless Humour 386
Count L. N. Tolst6y (1828- ) . . . . . .391
Anna Kare"nin . . . . . . . . . 392
War and Peace ......... 401
Uspe'nski (1840-1902) 408
The Power of the Land. Iv&n Petr6v .... 409
Levitov (1842-1877) 417
Shoemaker Cock-of-the-Boots 417
Zlatovrdtski (1845- ) . . . . . . . 427
Old Shadows 428
Korole"nko (1853- ) 43 6
The Old Bell-ringer 437
Garshin (1855-1888) 443
That Which Was Not 443
Potdpenko (1856- ) 448
A Thousand Talents . 448
Nddson (1862-1887) 457
My Friend, My Brother ! . 458
Poetry 458
Pity the stately cypress trees . . . . . . 459
Chekhov (1860- ) 459
In the Court-room ........ 460
Pyeshk6v (G6rki) (1871- ) . ... . . .467
In the Steppe 468
Merezhk6vski (1865- ) 482
From an Essay on " Pushkin " 483
INDEX 495
A SKETCH OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE IN THE
NINETEENTH CENTURY
VOL. II. I.
A SKETCH OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE IN THE
NINETEENTH CENTURY
WERE we to compare English literature to the starred
heavens with their galaxies and their permanent con-
stellations of varying magnitudes, Russian literature would
represent itself to us as the darkling sky which is now il-
lumined 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 splen-
dour.
Such, at least, is the aspect Russian literature bears in the
nineteenth century. Though Pushkin'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
Karamzin, or to the elegant imitations and patriotic ebulli-
tions of Zhukovski of the previous two decades, and yet
Karamzin lived till Pushkin reached man's estate, while
Zhukovski was still active after his death. Pushkin and
his contemporaries are classed separately from Le'nnontov,
3
4 A Sketch of Russian Literature
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 Lrmontov, though in the light of
Nekrasov's realism, who began writing in 1848, the poets
of pure art, Mdykov, Pol6nski, Tyutchev, Fet, all of them
born long before Pushkin'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 Vydzemski
who, reared in the school of Karamzin, 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.
Karamzin had barely established the new style of writing,
based on French and English writers, still struggling with
the reactionary tendency of Shishk6v, whose antiquated style
is prominent in Griboyedov's comedy, when a whole school
of Romanticists, beginning with Bestuzhev-Marlmski and
Lazhechnikov, and ending with Pushkin and L6rmontov,
evolved, under the influence of Walter Scott, the Russian
novel. It is a far cry from Karamzfn's Liza to Pushkin's
Captain's Daughter and to L,6rmontov's Hero of Our Time.
Yet, within less than a decade after the latter had charmed
the public, G6gol's Dead Souls completely obliterated the
fame of all its predecessors, and Byelinski'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. Turgenev,
Gonchar6v, Tolst6y, Dostoevski, Pisemski, were trained in
that school and wrote their first productions in the lifetime
of Gogol. Yet after the memorial year 1848 a reaction set
in in literature as well as in affairs, and the fifties, ex-
cept for rare flashes of genius from Turg6nev and Tolst6y,
were one barren waste. Of Gogol's example and Byeliuski'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, Turgenev
proved by his Fathers and Sons that he was no longer in
A Sketch of Russian Literature 5
touch with Russian reality ; and a few years later, after Tol-
stoy had written his War and Peace and Anna KarSnin, be-
gan Tolstoy's rapid departure from all reality.
In the meantime the critics, from the master Byelinski
down, through Dobrolyubov, Pisarev and Chernyshe'vski,
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. Grigorovich,
Pomyalovski, Uspenski, and a whole host of minor writers,
many of them riotous in the absence of style, produced a vast
amount of literature. Dostoevski, 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, Korolenko, Potdpenko,
Chekhov, Boborykin, and many, many more, and but lately
a new comet has loomed up in the horizon in the person of
Maksim G6rki.
The periods of distinct literary ideals are so short, their
activities so varied, that one feels tempted to treat the nine-
teenth 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
Karamzin 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 Alexan-
der I., the Crimean War under Nicholas I., and the death
of Alexander II. mark real epochs in the intellectual move-
ments of Russia. Each reign, in its turn, is by some his-
torical event divisible into two parts, the first of which
coincides with aspirations and vigorous activities in litera-
ture, the second with relaxation and indifference. Such
events were the year 1812 and, in a higher measure, the year
1848.
6 A Sketch of Russian Literature
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 pro-
nounced 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 arbi-
trary act of the monarch, but the logical culmination of the
literary propaganda, with Turge"nev 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 Pushkin
and Le'rmontov, or through insanity, as that of Garshm, or
through disease, frequently as the result of dire wretched-
ness in youth, or of intemperance, as that of Byelinski,
Dobrolyubov, Pisarev, Nikitin, Nddson, and many others!
The peculiar conditions of Russian literary life are the re-
sult 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 contem-
plates, not only the peculiar course of Russian belles-lettres
A Sketch of Russian Literature 7
and their artistic and political maxims, but also the exag-
gerated relation that Russian men of letters bear to the po-
litical 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 be-
ginning of the nineteenth century. The Western civilisa-
tion 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 Ly-
ceum at Tsdrskoe-Sel6 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 counterac-
tion to the brutal surroundings of old Russia. They brought
with them no home traditions of refinement, no settled po-
litical 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 sur-
roundings as the young men at the beginning of the cent-
ury. They, too, were the chosen few, and upon them, they
knew, devolved the task of regenerating their country. Un-
fortunately they lacked not only traditions of culture in their
8 A Sketch of Russian Literature
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 power-
ful 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 phi-
losophers, and with the enthusiasm of new converts trans-
ferred their tenets into their whole view of life and letters,
however, by first eliminating from it the essence of methodi-
cal thinking, which alone would have assured any perman-
ency to the Russian ecstasy.
Since culture was confined chiefly to the higher classes of
society, there was slowly growing up a select circle of culti-
vated 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 intel-
lectual 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
A Sketch of Russian Literature 9
criticisms of Chdtski in Griboye'dov's comedy to the con-
scious superiority of Bazdrov in Turgenev's Fathers and
Sons, and from the critiques of Byelmski to the negation of
art and literature in the acrid solvent of Pisarev's reviews
and in the latter-day literary productions of the master-
artist Tolst6y.
The salutary effects of the renewal of the intellectual
classes with every generation have been in the extreme de-
mocratisation of Russian society, and in the frequent and
varied evolution of talent, artistic, musical, literary, po-
litical. But the democracy, lacking the moderation of estab-
lished 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
Obl6movs, which Dobrolytibov has made in his review of
Goncharov'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 con-
spicuous 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 move-
ments, 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 sup-
posed to be young men, men of action, which view, having
its origin in the conservative spirit of Anglo-Saxon institu-
tions, 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 conse-
quence has been disastrous. Russian youths have tried to
io A Sketch of Russian Literature
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 cour-
age 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 be-
tween 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
Pushkin'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 re-
nounced 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, de-
spair. The men of coarser texture turned liberal opportun-
ists, 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,
A Sketch of Russian Literature 1 1
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 disappoint-
ment, the effects of which were mysticism, renunciation, op-
portunism, as the case might be.
Thus, also, there has followed a period of comparative
stagnation and even retrogression after every decade of con-
centrated production. The men whom common interests
had brought together in literary emulation had passed their
perihelion, and another generation had not yet reached ma-
turity; 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 Russi an 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 encourag-
ing. It is evident from the long duration of the smoulder-
ing 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.
1 2 A Sketch of Russian Literature
ii
The gloom which had spread over literature at the end of
Catherine's reign was lifted at the very opening of the nine-
teenth 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 re-
organise the country on Western models, and did not think
it unwise to ask Thomas Jefferson for a sketch of the Ameri-
can Constitution. He surrounded himself with men of pro-
nounced 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 Pushkin 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 cent-
ury, 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. Ozerov produced his thunderous
dramas and found a ready audience, and Derzhdvin not only
continued his writing of odes, but was able to maintain a
coterie of literary men who would not listen to the innova-
tions of Karamzm.
The most persistent stickler for the old conventions was
Shishk6v. 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 Karamzin so
A Sketch of Russian Literature 13
dexterously applied in his formation of a new literary style.
As President of the Russian Academy Shishk6v exercised a
certain influence, and the discussion of the two styles agi-
tated society for some time. There was just a spark of truth
in his contention. Like Shcherbatov before him, and the
Slavophiles thirty years later, he was anxious to see a
greater approach to the national spirit. Like his prede-
cessor, he did not fail to recognise that the colourless imita-
tion 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 ele-
ments. 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 Karamzin 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 Rus-
sian into a simpler and more harmonious instrument. His
example has been followed ever since. He was led by per-
sonal 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 suf-
fered 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 for-
eign models upon Russian soil. The adroitness with which
extraneous themes have been handled by many of the writ-
ers is truly remarkable. In Bdtyushkov it reached masterly
H A Sketch of Russian Literature
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, TTie Dying Tasso, which
combines epic calm and majesty of language as probably no
other production in Russian literature. But he had no con-
temporary audience that could follow him in his exquisite
interpretation of the Italian classical spirit, just as Gnye"dich,
the famous translator of the Iliad, felt aggrieved at the in-
difference 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, Zhuk6vski 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 Zhuk6vski 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 Kryl6v 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
Izmaylov.
The year 1812 had its immediate effects upon literature.
It gave rise to patriotic songs, like Zhuk6vski's In the Camp
of Russian Warriors, and to the patriotic series by Rylye*ev.
It led to a closer study of Russian history, and Karamzm's
monumental work could not have come at a more auspicious
A Sketch of Russian Literature 15
period. The consequences were even greater. Many young
officers who had formed their ideals of life through the imi-
tations 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. Uni-
versity professors were watched by the secret police, and
instruction was carried on under great difficulties. The
slightest expression of independence or freedom led to ban-
ishment and imprisonment. The strained relations between
the youthful idealists and the reactionaries culminated in
the unfortunate and impossible Decembrist conspiracy in
1825, when Ryly6ev, among others, paid the penalty of
death for his rashness.
But the accumulated literary force could no longer be dis-
persed. A galaxy of poets had with wonderful skill repro-
duced 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 Karamzin 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 Pushkin.
ni
A period rich in literary experience and new modes of ex-
pression does not necessarily presage the coming of a genius
who will unify the unrelated modes into a symmetric, in-
trinsically 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
1 6 A Sketch of Russian Literature
to reflect the accumulated force as one bright light for long
years to come. The conditions could not have been more aus-
picious for giving direction and meaning to Pushkin's genius.
Not only DerzhaVin, Karamzin, Dmitriev, Zhuk6vski, Bdt-
yushkov, and Kryl6v 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, Merzlyak6v, Neledinski-Mele'tski, Dolgoruki, 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 Govern-
ment 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 Pushkin passed through several stages.
In Rusldn and Lyudmfla, 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 Evgtni Onylgin, the
first real Russian novel. In Boris Godun6v he came under
the spell of Shakspere.
In the beginning of the new reign, Pushkin'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 G6gol. The doctrine which he taught, that
art is to be exercised for art's sake and not polluted by con-
tact with the vulgar, found no ready response in the troubled
years of the second half of the century. Only now, when
A Sketch of Russian Literature 17
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 Pushkin as
the fountainhead of Russian poetry. This just renewal of
the cult of Pushkin has already had the marked effect of re-
discovering and bringing to public notice the excellent crea-
tions of the poets of his school, Tyutchev, Fet, Maykov,
Pol6nski, and others, and of stimulating the youngest gen-
eration of poets, whose names are just beginning to be heard,
to higher efforts.
Many contemporary poets were inspired by the master.
Delvig, Ryly6ev, Baratynski, Venevitinov, Yazykov came
under his influence, but they were not able to follow him in
his eagle flight, and stopped at the earlier stages of his de-
velopment. There were others who showed more indi-
viduality, or even opened up new avenues in literature.
Griboyedov'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 in-
definite tendencies of the time were reflected with far greater
power in L6rmontov.
Lrmontov's Hero of Our Time is, to a certain extent, an
autobiography. It is of the same spiritual family as Evgeni
Onyggin, 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 some-
thing better to come, but did not have the energy to rise
above their surroundings and so lost themselves in contra-
dictions 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 Pushkin.
1 8 A Sketch of Russian Literature
More original than ly^rmontov was his contemporary
Koltsov. His middle-class surroundings had brought him
in much closer contact with the people than Pushkin, 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 Pushkin, 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 Delvig, had attempted this kind of
composition, but none of them had even distantly brought
to bear the same talent upon it as Kolts6v, 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 im-
passioned stories of Bestuzhev-Marlmski, G6gol evolved his
series of naturalistic stories, rising by pyramidal steps to his
immortal Dead Souls, which appeared in the very year that
Le'rmontov and Kolts6v died. A new chord was struck,
one that reverberates even now through all Russian litera-
ture. 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 G6gol. His
appearance, though startling and unexpected, was not un-
prepared. 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 re-
freshes 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 Pushkin's
best productions. G6gol had even a direct predecessor in
the manner of his stories in the person of Narye"zhny who,
being born in the same locality with him, had fallen back on
the same rich narrative material of his native Little-Russia.
A Sketch of Russian Literature 19
But in Gogol this naturalism was for the first time clearly
expressed and completely freed from all foreign contamina-
tion. Not at once, however. He made his de"but 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 in-
novations, 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 Byelinski 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
G6gol, 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 know-
ledge 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
Byelinski in their advocacy of a greater approach to Western
ideals. Others, again, inspired by the conceptions of na-
tion, 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 Khomyakov is better known for his theo-
logical writings than for his poetry, and Aksdkov, who had
received his training before the thirties, wrote his Family
Chronicle in his old age, evidently under the influence of
Gogol. All the great writers who are honoured abroad,
Turgdnev, Tolst6y, Dostoevski, have issued from the camp
20 A Sketch of Russian Literature
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 pos-
session of society. Periodicals ceased to exist, or were colour-
less and pedantic. The flimsiest society novels had pushed
all the great literature of the previous decade into the back-
ground. 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
G6gol 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 Ger-
many, 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, Turg6nev, 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 cau-
tious adoption of Western ideals. In style he was a realist
of a pronounced type, but his genius saved him from carry-
ing his naturalism to the appalling extent to which the
French novelists have carried it. In 1847 ne began to at-
tract attention by his sketches from peasant life, but in the
A Sketch of Russian Literature 2 1 ,
Jr
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.
Gonchar6v, in his Obldmov, 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 Tolst6y very early began to carry his analysis
to the farthest extent and not only assumed a negative atti-
tude 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 peo-
ple. He is less careful about style and artistic perfection of
his productions than Turgenev, but in the portrayal of sepa-
rate 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, Tolst6y has carried negation to the im-
possible point of non-resistance, thus repeating, though not
in an identical form, the experience of G6gol.
Dostoevski, 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 psy-
chological 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 in-
augurated 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
22 A Sketch of Russian Literature
before and soon after the emancipation the peasants came in
for the largest share of attention. At first their real con-
dition 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 DanileVski, Ryeshtnikov,
Levftov, Glyeb Uspnski, and Zlatovrdtski.
Others, again, proceeded to busy themselves with the in-
telligent class, pre-eminently with the negative sides of their
existence. Pisemski painted them in the blackest colours,
while Saltyk6v applied his great satirical talents more espe-
cially to the disclosure of all the wretchedness and dishonesty
of the middle and the official strata of society. Ostr6vski,
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 Nekrdsov and in a much
lesser degree in Nikftin. Though these writers are related
to Koltsov 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 back-
ground 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
A Sketch of Russian Literature 23
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 ap-
proach 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. I/ife 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. Tvro
ill ustrations will suffice to make this clear. Gorki, 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.
Merezhk6vski, who has not yet entirely passed his apprentice-
ship in letters, is trying to bridge over the democratic epoch,
which he abhors, and aspires for the laurels of Pushkin.
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
THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
Nikolay Mikhaylovich Karamzin. (1766-1826.)
Karamzin was bom in the Government of Simbirsk. 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
Dmitriev (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. Turgnev, a friend of N6vikov (see vol. i.,
pp. 32 and 327), and was brought by him under the educational influ-
ences of the Masonic Society, which, however, he never joined him-
self. He devoted himself to the study of the German language,
from which he translated much, and acquainted himself with Eng-
lish 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-Vizin (see vol. i., p.
355 et seg.), and indicate the great stride made in the intellectual ad-
vancement 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 ac-
count of the strong element of sentimental optimism that pervaded
them. His sentimentalism is even more pronounced in his poems,
and in his novels Poor Liza, Natdlya, the Boy&r's Daughter, and
Burgomistress M&rfa.
In 1803 Karamzin 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 Em-
pire, 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 Shcherbdtov (see vol. i., p. 287) and
Tatishchev (ib., p. 218), and the German historians in Russia, not by
27
28 The Nineteenth Century
any scientific method, but by its literary exposition, which served as
a model for a generation of historical novelists. Karamzin'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 Eng-
lish languages. This innovation involved him in a long controversy
with the adherents of the old style, of which Admiral Shishkdv was
the head, but he came out victorious, and for ever established the
Russian literary norm.
There are several translations, or rather paraphrases, of Karamzin'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 Bomholm, The Churchyard, Autumn,
Lilea, To Nicander ; and in Part II. : Raissa, The Haven, Song of
the Good Tzar, To , To the Nightingale. An epigram is trans-
lated 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 de-
parted ! My heart is attached to you with all its tender-
est 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 imagina-
tion! 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
Nikolay Mikhaylovich Karamzin 29
arrived, I grew sorrowful, for I came to the first vivid reali-
sation that I was about to part from the dearest people in
the world, and from all that, so to say, entered into the com-
position 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 serv-
ants 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 Petrov 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 kibitka, 1 glanced at Mos-
cow, 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
1 Native vehicle.
30 The Nineteenth Century
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 !
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 Ger-
mans. 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 every-
where a mixture of the natural with the romantic; every-
where " mes feux," "ma foi " ; everywhere Greeks and
Romans la franfaise, who are dissolved in amatory rapt-
ures, 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 a 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
Nikolay Mikhaylovich Karamzin 31
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 Shak-
spere, 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.
32 The Nineteenth Century
LONDON, September, 1790.
There was a time, when I had hardly seen any English-
men, 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 Pro-
fessor 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, senti-
mental, 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 emi-
grant 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 mo-
tion of the hands. The Englishman is reticent, indifferent,
and speaks as he reads, without ever expressing those sud-
Nikolay Mikhaylovich Karamzin 33
den 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 no-
thing. Geniuses are born in all lands; the universe is their
country, and, then, can it be said in j ustice 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.
VOL. II. 3.
34 The Nineteenth Century
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 LIZA
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
Nikolay Mikhaylovich Karamzin 35
Gothic towers of the monastery of St. Simeon. Standing on
that mound, you survey upon your right nearly all of Mos-
cow, that enormous mass of houses and churches, that pre-
sents 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 Mos-
cow 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, Kol6mna 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 im-
ploring 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
36 The Nineteenth Century
in the aerial 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 repre-
sentation of miracles that have taken place in this monas-
tery: there fishes fall from heaven to appease the hunger of
the denizens of the cloister that is besieged by a multitud-
inous 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
Liza, poor Liza. 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 with-
out doors, without windows, without a floor; its roof is de-
cayed and has fallen in long ago. In that hut there lived,
some thirty years ago, lovely Liza with her old mother.
Liza'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 hus-
band, for peasant women also know how to love, grew
weaker and weaker from day to day, and finally could not
work at all. Liza alone, who was fifteen years old at her
father's death, Liza 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
Nikolay Mikhaylovich Karamzin 37
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," Liza 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 Liza 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 L,iza, ' r 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 cer-
tainly 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 poster-
ity, the complement, the exposition of the present, and the
example for the future.
Rulers and lawgivers act according to the lessons of his-
tory, 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
38 The Nineteenth Century
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 judg-
ment 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 na-
tions 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
ait 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
Nikolay Mikhaylovich Karamzin 39
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 Abys-
sinia; 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 Pozhdrski 1
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 Vol-
khov, Dnieper, Don, when we know what has taken place
upon them in remote antiquity! Not only N6vgorod, Kiev,
Vladimir, but even the cabins of Ele"ts, Kozelsk, Galich, be-
come interesting monuments, and mute objects grow elo-
quent. 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 Astrakhan 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 pro-
tracted civil existence. One need not be a Russian, one
need only think, in order to read with curiosity the tradi-
tions of a nation that by daring and courage has obtained
1 The liberator of Russia, during the interregnum of the False
Demetrius.
40 The Nineteenth Century
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 en-
lightened them through God-sent faith, without violence,
without atrocities practised by the other devotees of Christ-
ianity 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 char-
acter 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 Svyatosldv, the
scourge of Baty, the popular rising under Donsk6y, the fall
of N6vgorod, the taking of Kazdn, the victory of the civic
virtues in the time of the interregnum. The giants of the
early dawn, Ole"g and the son of Igor; the simple-minded
knight, blind Vasilko; the friend of his country, virtuous
Monomdkh ; the brave Mstisldvs, terrible in war and an ex-
ample of meekness in peace; Mikhail of Tver, so famed for
his magnanimous death; the ill-fated, truly courageous
Aleksdndr N6vski; the youthful hero, the vanquisher of
Mamdy, the slightest sketch of them acts powerfully on
the imagination and on the heart. The reign of Ivdn 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 be-
tween these two autocrats are the remarkable Ivdn IV. and
Godun6v, who merited his good fortune and his reverses;
the strange False Demetrius; and, after a host of valiant
patriots, boydrs, and citizens, the mentor of the enthroned,
Patriarch Filar6t 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.
Andrevich Kryl6v 4 1
Iv&n AndrSevich Kryl6v. (1768-1844.)
Kryl6v'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 capaci-
ties 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 appoint-
ment at the Imperial (later the Public) Library, which gave him
ample leisure to devote himself to literature, though his innate lazi-
ness made him very unproductive. Kryl6v 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 at-
mosphere 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 Kryl6v 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 "
[byj. Long], Calcutta, 1869; Kriloff's Original Fables, translated
by I. H. Harrison, London, 1883. Separate fables have been trans-
lated by Sir John Bowring in his Specimens of the Russian Poets,
Part I. (from the manuscript furnished him by Kryl6v) ; three poems,
given below [by W. D. Lewis] in the National Gazette and Literary
Register, Philadelphia, 1825 ; in Russian Fabulists, with Specimens,
in Eraser'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:
42 The Nineteenth Century
" 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 '11 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.
Ivan Andreevich Kryl6v 43
THE QUARTETTE
The tricksy Monkey, the Goat, the Ass, and bandy-legged
Mishka the Bear, determine to play a quartette. They pro-
vide 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 fiddle-
sticks 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, M ishka, 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 hap-
pened 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 Krttof and his Fables.
44 The Nineteenth Century
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 /."
" 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 Krilqff's Original Fables.
Ivan Andreevich Kryl6v 45
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 '11 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.
46 The Nineteenth Century
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,
AlekscLndr Efimovich Izm&ylov. (1779-1831.)
Izmaylov was for a short time vice-governor of Tver and Arkhan-
gelsk. He published several periodicals, to which he contributed
Aleksandr Eflmovich Izm^ylov 47
sentimental novels in Karamzin'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
Iviterary 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 '11 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 morn-
ings. 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
48 The Nineteenth Century
heart. At first, like the artist he was, he appeared awk-
ward and timid, but at last he made up his mind and, sigh-
ing, 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 luxuri-
ous capital, read with her my verses; if she will agree to
eat forget-me-not soup, you may safely marry her.
THE TWO CATS
Vdnka the Cat and Vdska were two brothers; they were
both born and lived in the same house. Vdnka was so lean
that it would frighten you to look at him, in truth, he was
not rounder than a plank ; whereas Vdska was as fat as the
steward, and could barely waddle on account of his obesity;
his fur had the sheen of velvet.
Vasili Trofimovich Naryezhny 49
" 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 pre-
sence, 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."
Vasili Trofimovich Naryezhny. (1780-1825.)
Narye"zhny was born but a short distance from G6gol's native
place. In 1801 he graduated from the Moscow University, and
entered the army. After that he served in various departments, ris-
ing 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 Bias : 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 G6gol, 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 Nar-
ye"zhny's later works, The Seminarist: A Little-Russian Story, and
The Two Iv&ns ; or, The Passion for Litigation, recur in a modified
form in Gogol's works. It was only a short time ago that this rela-
tion of the two authors was pointed out.
FROM "THE TWO IVANS; 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
VOL. II. 4.
50 The Nineteenth Century
of visitors were not a burden to him. He feasted the men,
and his wife the women. Pan Khariton 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 occa-
sion 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 charm-
ing?
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 Anuri. All rose respect-
fully, 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 Khariton, 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 Kharit6n ! '
From this I conclude," proceeded Anuri, "that they are
favourable, for I am seldom wrong in my conclusions."
"I understand, I understand!" said Pan Khariton, and
went out smiling. Anuri had barely gotten away with the
fourth cup, when Pan Kharit6n 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
Vasili Trofimovich Narydzhny 51
first Poltava potter. Pan Anuri received the offerings with
condescension and hastened to his two-wheeled cart to de-
posit them there, after which he entered the room with a
large sealed batch of papers, handed it respectfully to Pan
Kharit6n, and seated himself in his old place. Pan Khariton
cursorily glanced at every paper and said: "After all the
troubles I have had, my eyes have grown dim. Be so kind,
Pan Anuri, as to read them. The decree of the hundred-
court is no secret. ' '
Pan Anuri took the documents with much dignity, selected
from them the judgment, put on his eyeglasses, and began
to read: "Pan Kharit6n Zan6za appears as the plaintiff
against Pan Ivan Zubar and Pan Ivan Khtara, claiming
that they had burnt down his dove-cots with all the pigeons,
of which there were more than two hundred ; the two Pans
Ivdn, however, declare that the apiary of the elder Ivan, con-
taining 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 Khariton' s dove-
cot all the pigeons, of which there were more than two
hundred, i. <?., 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 Ivan 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 Ivdn 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
Kharit6n has caused to Pan Ivdn 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
52 The Nineteenth Century
Anuri. 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 Ivan the elder, he signing a receipt for it."
Who will describe Pan Kharit6n'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 be-
side 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 Kharit6n 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 Khariton all
the women and daughters of the guests had made their ap-
pearance, he pulled Pan Anuri 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 be-
gan to belabour, now the horse, now Anuri. The poor animal
flew out of the yard into the road as fast as it could, and Pan
Kharit6n 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 Poltava 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 de-
stroyed apiary, the two Pans Ivan were travelling in triumph
Vasili Trofimovich Naryezhny 53
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 Ivan the elder: "we '11 take
the rouble that belongs to us from Anuri and will give him
a good treat."
They entered the tavern and sure enough saw Pan Anuri
sitting over a cup, but in a most dejected attitude. ' ' What 's
the matter, Pan Anuri?" cried out Ivan 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 Anuri, are a great fellow and pretty slick ! Who
would have thought you could manage in so short a time
that riotous head of worthless Zano/.a ? ' '
" I should say I did manage! " said Anuri with a bitter
smile and, filling his cup, drank from it with unmistakable
disgust. The two Ivans looked at his strange action in
wonderment, and pressed him with all kinds of questions.
Anuri told them all in detail. Having listened with un-
disguised attention to this incident which had been unheard
of in Little-Russia from its beginning, the two Ivdns were
heartily glad, and the elder one clapped his hands. Anuri
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 Ivdn 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 adminis-
tered to the worshipful scribe of the hundred-court by the
bold hand of furious Zan6za. We hope that this wrong-
doing 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 Anuri, a man grown
grey and bald among papers, ink, and pens! "
" He 's warmed me up just twelve times," said Pan Anuri
54 The Nineteenth Century
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 noble-
men 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. OPansIvdn! If you rejoice because Kharit6nZan6za
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! "
Vasili AndrSevich Zhukdvski. (1783-1852.)
Zhuk6vski was the son of a landed proprietor of Tula, by the name
of Bunin, and of a captive Turkish woman, but received his own name
from his godfather, who happened to be living at Bunin's house.
After the death of his father he was adopted by Mrs. Bunin, who
cared for him as for her own son. He was first educated in the pub-
lic school of Tula, but was requested to be removed on account of
dulness. He was then privately brought up in the house of his god-
mother, 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 melan-
choly subjects, as more adapted to his sentimental, reflective nature.
It was chiefly Zhuk6vski who transplanted the German Romantic-
ism to Russia, but his deserts are not only in having abandoned the
pseudo-classic style of poetry : he was the first to recognise the im-
portant educational value of poetry, and its moral power, which made
Vasili Andreevich Zhukovski 55
it the equal of religion, or, as Zhuk6vski put it, "Poetry is the ter-
restrial sister of heavenly religion," and " Poetry is virtue." He
achieved his fame by his ballad Svyetl&na. 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 Karamzin.
Sir John Bowring gives in Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part I. :
The Mariner, bolus's Harp Song (Say, ye gentle breezes, say}, Ro-
mance ; in Part II. : The Minstrel in the Russian Camp, Svyetl&na
(under the name of Catherine), Theon and ^Eschines, The Bard ; a
prose version of Svyetl&na, 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, Svyetl&na ; 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.
SVYETlANA '
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.
1 Changed by Sir John Bowring in the poem to Catherine.
56 The Nineteenth Century
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,
41 Look within, O look!
'T is the hour of spirits, haste!
Vasili Andreevich Zhuk6vski 57
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," 'Tis 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! "
58 The Nineteenth Century
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,
Vasili Andreevich Zhukovski 59
Wax and taper burn.
IyO ! 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.
60 The Nineteenth Century
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:
Vasili Andrevich Zhukovski 61
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:
62 The Nineteenth Century
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,
Vasili Andreevich Zhuk6vski 63
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
lyike a forest river !
And let joy, with smiles serene,
Be as it hath ever been,
Her bright guide for ever!
From Sir John Bowling's Specimens of the
Russian Poets, Part II.
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.
64 The Nineteenth Century
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.
OSvyatosldv! time's injured son,
Thy path an eagle's flying:
' ' There is no shame in dying On !
There is no shame in dying ! ' '
And Donsk6y, 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,
"Poltava!" 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.
Vasili Andreevich Zhukovski 65
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 Suvorov !
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 !
VOL. II. 5.
66 The Nineteenth Century
That is our country, there our home,
There wife and babes attend us;
And oft their prayers towards us roain,
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,
Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov 67
And round us desolation fling,
And death is in our glances.
The Robber ! he had spread his power
Around our Moskva'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.
Iv&n Ivanovich Kozl6v. (1779-1840.)
After having served for some time in the army, Kozl6v in 1798
entered the Civil Service, living in Moscow and later in St. Peters-
burg. 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 Zhuk6vski, he
never thought of devoting himself to literature. But the calamity
that had overtaken him compelled him to concentrate himself, and
68 The Nineteenth Century
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 Zhuk6vski and
Byron, but he gained his great reputation by his The Black Monk,
written in 1824, which enjoyed the same popularity among the senti-
mental souls of the twenties that Poor Liza (see p. 27) had had in the
beginning of the century. This was soon followed by Princess Nat&lya
Borisovna Dolgoruki (see vol. i., p. 233) and a large number of minor
poems that are distinguished for their elegiac and deep religions
tone.
In W. D. Lewis's The Bakchesarian Fountain, Philadelphia, 1841,
is given his Solitude ; T. B. Shaw translated his Kiev 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 Chemetz (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 neighbour-
ing 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.
Ivan Ivanovich Kozl6v 69
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 impart's 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 can-
not move,
And give instead the smiles of friends, the tender look of
love!
From W. D. Lewis's The Bakchesarian Fountain.
KIEV
O Kiev ! where religion ever seemeth
To light existence in our native land;
Where o'er Pecherski'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 L&vra's 1 walls or Dnieper's wave, nor wanted
A spell to draw me from this life apart;
1 Name of certain monasteries.
70 The Nineteenth Century
In thee my country I behold, victorious,
Holy and beautiful, and great and glorious.
The moon her soft ray on Pech6rski 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:
Vladimir'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 Boy&n 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 ( v l- l y )-
FROM "THE BLACK MONK"
I. THE MONASTERY
Beyond Kiev, 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
Ivan Ivanovich Kozlov 71
four towers in the corners, and in the midst, the temple of
the Lord with gilded cupolas. A row of cells, a dark corri-
dor, 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 shin-
ing; 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, mel-
ancholy, 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 unquench-
able 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 even-
ing 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.
72 The Nineteenth Century
" 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 Kiev
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.
4 4 1 walked. The day was inclining to the evening, and
suddenly a rustic temple of the Lord stood before my fright-
ened eyes. Beside myself, I approached the grave where
Konstantin Nikolaevich Batyushkov 73
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."
Konstantin Nikolaevich Batyushkov. (1787-1855.)
Bdtyushkov 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. Murave'v (see vol. i. p. 395),
who also interested him in the ancient classics, among whom Bat-
yushkov admired most and imitated Horace and Tibullus. In 1806
he was seized by the prevailing patriotic enthusiasm, after the dis-
aster 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 oppor-
tunity 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, hav-
ing, like his mother before him, become hopelessly insane. No other
poet had given such promise as Bdtyushkov, and even Pushkin re-
garded 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 Bowling'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,
74 The Nineteenth Century
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 watered ?
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
Konstantin Nikolaevich Batyushkov 75
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 winged death. Neither tears of friend-
ship, nor the prayers of the monks, nor honours' tardy due,
these will not curb indomitable fate that spares not even
76 The Nineteenth Century
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 god-
dess 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
Konstantin Nikolaevich Batyushkov 77
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 fam-
ily, my brothers! Here are their tears and sweet caresses,
and Vergil'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 com-
muned with thee, rebellious Cedron, and thee, peaceful re-
treats 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 Parcae; 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 gloom j^ brow
;8 The Nineteenth Century
was now agleam with its last light. Refreshed by the even-
ing 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 lumi-
nary 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 '11 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.
Fedor Nikoteevich Glinka. (1788-1880.)
Glinka was born in the Government of Smolensk 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 Miloradovich.
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 pub-
lished a collection of Spiritual Songs.
In C. T. Wilson's Russian Lyrics are given The Appearance of the
Fdor Nikolaevich Glinka 79
Unknown, The Search for God, and Moscow. N. H. Dole has trans-
lated his Moscow (publication unascertainable).
MOSCOW
Wondrous city, ancient city,
Thou enfoldest in thy waits
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 Ivan 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.
8o The Nineteenth Century
White-walled city, them 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,
Prince Petr Andreevich Vyazemski 81
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 Andreevich Vydzemski. (1792-1878.)
Prince Vyazemski was one of the very few literary men in Russia
whose career began before that of Pushkin and who were still active
at a time when Tolst6y and Dostoevski had established their reput-
ations. His father, dying, left him in charge of Karamzin, to whom
he was related by marriage. Through him, Prince Vyazemski was
early brought in contact with the literary circle, meeting there on a
friendly footing Zhuk6vski, Batyushkov, and Pushkin. He took
part in the campaign of 1812, and at Borodin6 two horses were shot
under him. He later occupied various posts, and was made Asso-
ciate 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 Karamzin,
while the Romantic spirit of Pushkin'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 every-
thing that departed from the code of Karamzin.
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. t
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.
VOL. II. 6.
82 The Nineteenth Century
THE SAMOVAR
'T is pleasant, having strayed abroad, to find a familiar
picture of native customs, homelike bread-and-salt, a hos-
pitable 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 teas-
ing, malicious spirit disrupts them, there is no connection:
each day you live anew, yet life is only good through tradi-
tions of love, oneness of beliefs and feelings, concord of im-
pressions, 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
Prince Petr Andreevich Vy^zemski 83
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 samo-
var, 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 inextinguish-
able 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 samovar,
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 samovar,
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 in-
spired by the samovar? Derzhavin'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 samovar.
84 The Nineteenth Century
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,
Oiie 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.
Prince Petr Andreevich Vyazemski 85
Time was, how blessed 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, blessed 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.
86 The Nineteenth Century
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 habita-
tions of men !
Kondrdti F6dorovich Rylyfcev. (1796-1826.)
Rylye"ev 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 ex-
pedition that entered Paris. Upon his return, he was stationed in the
Governments of Minsk and Vor6nezh ; he later settled in St. Peters-
burg, 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 repub-
licanism, 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, Pushkin. Of his historical ballads the best are Ivan Susdnin
and Voynardvski ; they all created an outburst of patriotic enthusiasm
upon their appearance. Of his other poems the most perfect are The
Citizen and Civil Valour. Rylye"ev 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 Voynardvski was translated in the Foreign
Quarterly Review, vol. ix., 1832 ; a large number of his poems, con-
taining the whole of Voynardvski^ are given in The Poems of K. F.
Jtelaieff, translated from the Russian by T. Hart-Davies, London
(new and enlarged edition, 1887) ; C. T. Wilson has translated in
Kondrati Fedorovich Rylyeev 87
Russian Lyrics his Iv&n Sus&nin, Svyatopblk, and Prayer Before
Death. In Free Russia, vol. xii., No. 2, The Citizen is translated by
Elizabeth Gibson.
FROM "VOYNAROVSKI "
But whose that wandering form that 's seen
Athwart the morning fog to creep
From out yon hut, and on the steep
Beneath which L,ena'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;
88 The Nineteenth Century
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.
1 ' 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.
IVAN SUSANIN
" 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.
Kondr^ti Fedorovich Rylyev 89
1 ' 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 '11 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,
90 The Nineteenth Century
"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.
Kondr^ti Fedorovich Rylyeev 91
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."
92 The Nineteenth Century
" 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! "
Susan in 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.
Aleksandr SergySevich Griboyfcdov. (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 secre-
tary of the Russian legation in Persia, and in recognition of his im-
portant 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 Conies 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, Griboye'dov
incurred the animosities of all\he 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 Griboye'dov was sent again to Persia, this
time in the capacity of minister, but he was killed soon after his ar-
rival 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 Liter-
ary Society, No. 15, is translated his David, by F. P. Marchant.
Aleksindr Sergydevich Griboyedov 93
FROM <( INTELLIGENCE COMES TO GRIEF"
ACT II, SCENE I. FAMUSOV AND SERVANT
Fdmusov. Petrushka, 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 under-
standing, with rests. Hold on ! Write down on the memo-
randum, against next week: " I 'm invited to Prask6vya
Fddorovna on Tuesday for trout." How wonderful this
world is made ! Your brain is in a whirl when you philoso-
phise 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 honour-
able 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: ' ' Maksim Petr6vich,
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. FiMUSOV, SERVANT, AND CHATSKI
Fdmusov. Ah, Aleksandr Andrich, come nearer, take a
seat!
Chdtski. You are busy ?
Fdmusov (to the servant}. Go! {Servant exit.} Yes, I have
been entering various memoranda on business matters, not
to forget them by any chance.
Chdtski. You look disconcerted. Tell me, why ? Is my
arrival untimely? Has, perchance, some sorrow come to
Sophia Pdvlovna ? There is disquiet in your face and move-
ments.
94 The Nineteenth Century
Fdmusov. What a riddle you have propounded, my friend !
Not joyful ! You would not expect me, at my age, to dance
a jig.
Chdtski. Nobody asks you to. I just asked two words
about Sophia Pdvlovna, fearing that she might be ill.
F&musov. 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 Pdvlovna, now,
Sophia Pdvlovna 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 ?
Chdtski. What is that to you ?
Fdmusov. 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.
Chdtski. Suppose I should sue for her hand, what would
you say ?
Fdmusov. I should say: First, do not make a fool of your-
self, do not, my friend, neglect your estate; but above all,
take a government position.
Chdtski. I should gladly serve, but I hate to be subservient.
Fdmusov. 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, Maksim Petr6vich :
he used to dine not upon silver, but upon gold ; a hundred
servants were at his beck ; he was all covered with decora-
tions; 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 neces-
sary 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,
Alekscindr Sergyevich Griboyedov 95
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? Maksim Petr6vich!
Who was honoured above all others at Court ? Maksim Pe-
trovich! That 's no trifle! Who conferred ranks, and gave
pensions ? Maksim Petr6vich ! Ah, you of to-day are what ?
Chdtski. 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 often-
est 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.
Fdmusov. My God, he is a carbonaro!
Chdtski. No, this is a different world!
Fdmusov. Dangerous man !
Chdtski. Everybody breathes more freely, and nobody
hastens to inscribe himself in the army of fools.
Fdmusov. How he talks ! And he talks as he writes.
Chdtski. 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
Fdmusov. He wants to preach liberty !
96 The Nineteenth Century
Chdtski. Who travels, who lives in the village
Fdmusov. He does not acknowledge the authorities !
Chdtski. Who serves his office and not men
Fdmusov. I should most severely forbid such gentlemen to
get within a gunshot of the capitals !
Chdtski. I will not give you any rest !
Fdmusov. My patience is all exhausted, I have had
enough !
Chdtski. 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.
Fdmusov. I do not wish to know you ! I despise debauch !
Chdtski. I have had my say.
Fdmusov. Very well, I close my ears !
Chdtski. What for ? I shall not insult them.
Fdmusov (rapidly). Such are the people that race the world
and waste their time. When they return, what order can
you expect of them ?
Chdtski. I am done.
Fdmusov. Please, spare me !
Chdtski. It is not my desire to continue the dispute.
Fdmusov. At least leave my soul to repentance.
SCENE 3. THE SAME AND SERVANT
Servant. Colonel Skaloztib !
Fdmusov (not seeing or hearing him). You '11 be court-
martialled yet! They '11 give you to drink.
Chdtski. You have a guest
Fdmusov. I do not hear! You '11 be court-martialled!
Chdtski. Your servant is reporting to you.
Fdmusov. I do not hear! You'll be court-martialled,
court-martialled, I say !
Chdtski. Just turn around, you are addressed.
Fdmusov (turning around). Oh, rebellion! I am expect-
ing nothing but Sodom !
Servant. Colonel Skaloztib ! Shall he be received ?
Fdmusov (rising). Asses! Shall I repeat it a hundred
Aleks^ndr Sergy6evich Griboyedov 97
times ? Receive him, call him, ask him in, tell him I am at
home, that I am glad. Begone, be in a hurry! (Exit Ser-
vant.} Please, sir, be careful in his presence; he is a dis-
tinguished 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. CHiTSKI, FiMUSOV, SKAI,OZUB
Fdmusov. Sergy6y Sergy6ich, come here, near us! 'T is
warmer here, come here! I '11 open the register at once.
Skalozub (in a heavy bass}. Why should you trouble your-
self? As an honourable officer I can't permit that.
Fdmusov. Why should I not take a step for a friend ?
Dear Sergyy Sergye"ich, put down your hat, take off your
sword. Here is a sofa: make yourself comfortable.
Skalozub. I do not care where, so I am seated.
(All three sit down, Chdtski at some distance?)
Fdmusov. 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 Nastdsya Nikoldevna is related to you ?
Skalozub. Beg your pardon, I do not know: we did not
serve together.
Fdmusov. Sergye"y Sergye*ich, 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 rela-
tive's; Molchdlin 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.
Skalozub. Cousin and I distinguished ourselves in 1813 in
the thirtieth of the Chasseurs, and later in the forty-fifth.
Fdmusov. How fortunate is he who has such a son ! He
has, I believe, a decoration in the buttonhole ?
VOL. II. 7.
98 The Nineteenth Century
Skalozub. For August third. We stuck to a trench. He
received his in the buttonhole, I around my neck.
Fdmusov. A lovely man! A fine fellow to look at! A
splendid man is your cousin !
Skalozub. 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.
Fdmusov. Strange youth ! To read, and then look out !
You have acted as is proper: you have long been colonel,
though you serve but shortly.
Skalozub. 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.
Fdmusov. Yes, if God wants to show one His favour, He
advances him !
Skalozub. Some are luckier than I. Not to go farther,
I '11 mention our brigadier-general in the fifteenth division.
Fdmusov. But, I pray, you are lacking nothing.
Skalozub. I can't complain, I have not been overlooked;
yet, I have been two years with the same regiment.
Fdmusov. Oh, you are after the rank of general ! Still, in
many other things you have left others far behind.
Skalozub. 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.
Fdmusov. 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. Skalozub.
Skalozub. Get married ? I am not disinclined.
Fdmusov. 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.
Skalozub. Distances of enormous proportion !
Fdmusov. There are good taste, my friend, and excellent
manners, and for everything there are laws. There, for
Aleks^ndr Sergyeevich Griboyedov 99
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 sen-
tence 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 intro-
duce innovations never ! The Lord preserve us, no ! They
simply find fault with this and that, and oftenest with no-
thing 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 ! Irina
Vldsevna! Luk6rya Aleksyeevna! Tatyana Yurevna! Pul-
khe"riya Andr6evna ! 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
ioo The Nineteenth Century
one be brought up better! They know how to primp them-
selves 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 emphat-
ically: you will scarcely find another such a capital as Mos-
cow!
Skalozub. In my opinion, the conflagration has done much
for its embellishment.
Fdmusov. You have no cause for complaint: since then
our roads, our sidewalks, houses, and all creak in a new
fashion.
Chdtski. The houses are new, but the prejudices old.
Rejoice: neither years, nor fashion, nor conflagrations will
annihilate them.
Fdmusov (to Chdtski}. Sir, tie a knot for memory's sake!
I asked you to keep quiet, 't is but a small service. (To
Skalozub.} Permit me, sir, to acquaint you with Chdtski, a
friend of mine, the son of the late Andre"y Ilich! 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
Chdtski. Can you not regret someone else ? Even your
praises anger me!
Fdmusov. Not I alone, everybody judges you thus.
Chdtski. 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
Ochdkov 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 mag-
nificent palaces, where they indulge in banquets and lavish-
ness, and where the foreign clients will not efface the
Aleks^ndr Sergydevich Griboyedov 101
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 con-
templation 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 know-
ledge, 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 pov-
erty 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 some-
one of the Guards or from the Court came here for a time, the
women cried ' ' Hurrah ! ' ' and threw their bonnets in the air.
Fdmusov (aside). He will get me into trouble yet ! (Aloud.}
Sergy6y Sergy6ich, I shall wait for you in the study. (Exit.)
102 The Nineteenth Century
Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Bestuzhev (pseud. Mar-
linski). (1797-1837.)
Bestuzhev was one of three brothers who took part in the Decem-
brist 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 Rylye'ev 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 Pushkin greatly admired,
and several of his works have been translated into many languages,
among them also into Georgian. His Ammalat Bek was translated
into English by Thomas B. Shaw, in Blackwood's Edinburgh Maga-
zine, vol. liii., 1843 ; also The Tartar Chief; or, A Russian Colonel's
Head for Dowry \ from the Russian of Marlinsky , by G. C. Hebbe,
LUX, New York, 1846.
FROM "AMMALAT BEK"
For some time past, the mountaineers had fallen in con-
siderable numbers only on Christian villages, for in the
stanitsas ' 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 Uzd6ns 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 Te"rek,
to seize it, carry off prisoners, and take the droves of horses.
The leader of the Kabardinians was the Prince Dzhembulat.
Ammaldt Bek, who had arrived with a letter from Sultan
Akhm6t Khan, was received with delight. They did not,
indeed, assign him the command of any division; but this
1 Cossack villages.
Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Bestuzhev 103
arose from the circumstance that with them there is no order
of battle or gradation of command ; an active horse and in-
dividual courage secures the most distinguished place in
action. At first they deliberate how best to begin the at-
tack, 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
Uzdens, Dzhembuldt fixed on a place of general assembling;
and immediately, on a signal agreed on, from every height
spread the cry: " Garay, gardy! " (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 Dzhembuldt, 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 Uzd6ns took
up their quarters in the sdklas of their kunaks or relations;
but Dzhembuldt and Ammalat, with the best of the cavaliers,
slept in the open air around a fire, when they had refreshed
their jaded horses. Dzhembulat, wrapped in his burka,
was considering, with folded arms, the plan of the expedi-
tion ; but the thoughts of Ammalat were far from the battle-
field: they were flying, eagle- winged, to the mountains of
Avdr, and bitterly, bitterly, did he feel his separation. The
sound of an instrument, the mountain balaldyka, accom-
panying a slow air, recalled him from his reverie; and a
Kabardinian sang an ancient song.
" On Kazbe"k the clouds are meeting,
Like the mountain eagle-flock;
Up to them, along the rock,
Dash the wild Uzdens retreating;
104 The Nineteenth Century
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
II- 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 Dzhembuldt, 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, Ammaldt," 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."
Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Besttizhev 105
" The more Russians there are the better," replied Am-
malat, 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 tor6ks (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, Ammaldt Bek. Do you prefer to ad-
vance in front to carry off the flocks, or will you remain with
me in the rear ? I and the Abreks 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 Abr6ks, Dzhembulat ? "
" 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 Uzdens make such
an engagement ? ' '
" Some simply to show their courage, others from poverty,
a third class from some misfortune. See, for instance, yon-
der tall Kabardinian ; he has sworn to be an Abre"k 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 Abre*k to a peaceable existence ? "
" What is there strange in this? The past glides from
io6 The Nineteenth Century
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 Abrkism, 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 Trek. It is
time for the work. ' '
Dzhembuldt whistled, and his whistle was repeated to all
the outposts of the camp. In a moment the whole band
was assembled. Several Uzde"ns joined from the neighbour-
ing friendly villages. After a short discussion as to the
passage of the river, the band moved in silence to the bank.
Ammaldt 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 T6rek, 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 dis-
covered 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 Trek.
Aleksandr Aleks^ndrovich Bestiizhev 107
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 mean-
time, the foremost had driven across the river a portion of
the flocks, when a cloud of dust, and the tramp of the cav-
alry, announced the approaching storm.
About six hundred mountaineers, commanded by Dzhem-
bulat and Ammalat, 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 I/ine, 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 ex-
perienced Colonel KortsareV, 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
io8 The Nineteenth Century
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 Te"rek, far in the distance, and the snowy peaks of the
Caucasus, crowned with mist, bounded the field of battle.
Dzhembul&t and Ammalat 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, Dzhembulat," said the Bek to the Kabardinian,
1 ' 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 Dzhembuldt, " 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
Aleksndr Aleksandrovich Bestiizhev 109
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, pre-
paring 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,
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! "
i io The Nineteenth Century
First Semichorus
1 ' 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!"
Ivan Ivanovich Lazhechnikov 1 1 1
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 them-
selves dagger in hand, upon the Russians. The Abre"ks
in order that their line might not be broken, bound them-
selves to each other with their girdles, and hurled themselves
into the me'lee. Quarter was neither asked nor given: all
fell before the bayonets of the Russians.
" Forward! Follow me, Ammalat Bek," cried Dzhembu-
lat, with fury, rushing into the combat which was to be his
last: "Forward! For us death is liberty !"
But Ammalat 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).
Ivan Ivanovich Lazhechnikov. (1794-1869.)
Lazhdchnikov was the most famous of Russian novelists before
G6gol. His father was a rich grain and salt merchant in the city of
Kol6mna, and he spared no money for the education of his son. At
sixteen years Lazhechnikov wrote his Thoughts in Imitation of La
Bruyere, which was published in The Messenger of Europe. His
father having lost all his property, he accepted a government posi-
tion, 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 at-
tracted 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.
ii2 The Nineteenth Century
THE HERETIC
PROLOGUE
It was the 2jth of October, 1505. As if for the coronation
of a Tsar, Moscow was decorated and adorned. The Cathe-
dral 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
loann III. A person who, thirty years back, had left Mos-
cow, poor, insignificant, resembling a large village, sur-
rounded 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 guardian-
ship, he had torn off its swaddling bands, and not by years,
but by hours, he reared it to a giant vigour. Novgorod 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; Kazan, 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. lodnn, 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
Ivan Ivanovich Lazhchnikov 113
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 innova-
tions. At one corner of the prison, the Black House, but
later than the other houses, was illumined by a weak and
nickering 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 trans-
gressions; 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 grand-
father against the others, and not against him. They had
VOL. II. 8.
ii4 The Nineteenth Century
destined him a throne, and they had dragged him to a dun-
geon. 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 Ivdn III., the only child of his
beloved son, Dmitri Ivdnovich.
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
N6vgorod 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. Dmitri Ivdnovich
started up. "Afoniya, 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, Nebog&ty!
Why cometh not Af6niya? I am sad, I am lonely, I am
devoured by grief, as if a serpent lay at my heart. Didst
thou not say that Af6niya would come as soon as they
lighted the candles in the houses ? "
"Afandsi Nikitin ' hath a mind as single as his eye," said
the deacon Dmitri Nebogaty, a kind and good-natured offi-
cer, yet strict in the performance of the charge given him by
the Great Prince, of guarding his grandson. (We may re-
1 See vol. i., p. in.
Ivan Ivanovich Lazhdchnikov 115
mark that at this time he, in consequence of the illness of
Dmitri, the treasurer and groom of the bedchamber, fulfilled
their duties. All honour to a prince, even though he be a
prisoner!)
"Make thyself easy, Dmitri Ivanovich; 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 Dmitri Ivdnovich, 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 hand-
ful, 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 Af6niya! " he cried, giving back the box to the
deacon, and descending from the bed.
' ' I,ock it, Dmitri Ivanovich ! ' ' said Nebogdty 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,
u6 The Nineteenth Century
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 bril-
liancy, and seemed to see for itself and for its unfortunate
twin brother. No son more affectionately meets a tenderly
l>eloved father than Dmitri Ivdnovich met the old man.
Joy sparkled in the eyes of the Tsare" vich, 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 Afanasi Nikitin, 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 Dmitri
Ivdnovich (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 Dmitri give
him for his labour ? Much, very much to a good heart,
his delight, the qnly pleasure left him in the world, and
this reward the Tver man would not have exchanged for
gold. Once the TsareVich 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 Afanasi Nikitin 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 Tsare" vich listen
Ivan Ivanovich Lazhechnikov 117
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 Nebogaty'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 Afanasi Nikftin'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. ' ' Ivan Vas-
ilevich 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 cap-
tive the child who had just been playing with jewels
arose the Great Prince of all Russia.
Ivan 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 Dmitri Ivanovich in the palace of the
Great Prince interrupted for a time the general lamenta-
tion, real and feigned. The unexpectedness, the novelty
n8 The Nineteenth Century
of the object, the strange fate of the prince, pity, the thought
that he, perhaps, would be the sovereign of Russia in a mo-
ment, 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 aston-
ishment; 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, Ivan Vasilevich 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. Ivan 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 boyars, his kins-
men.
" Hither, to me, Dmitri, my dear grandson," said the
Great Prince, recognising him through the mists of death.
Dmitri Ivanovich 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 galvan-
ism, 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 for-
give The Lord and I have crowned thee be
my "
The face of Vasfli lodnnovich 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 Ivan Vasilevich yielded up his last breath, applying
Ivan Ivanovich Lazhchnikov 119
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 Dmitri 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 Af6niya in the deep slumber of the
just. Having bewailed his woes, the ill-fated Dmitri 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 Tsar6vich 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 Dmitri Ivanovich 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 Af6niya'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 Afoniya, as
of old, visited the dungeon. He had finished his tale of the
Almayne, whom they called the Heretic, and the scribe
120 The Nineteenth Century
Nebogaty, 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
Afandsi Nikitin was seen no more within it. Assuredly
Dmitri Ivdnovich 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 Dmitri Ivdnovich, 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.
Baron Anton Antonovich Dfclvig. (1798-1831.)
Delvig entered the Lyceum at Tsarskoe-Sel6 on the same day with
Pushkin, 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 Pushkin's influence he soon turned his attention to original
poems. Though only a star of the second magnitude, his verses be-
came very popular and were set to music. Later they served as the
starting-point for the popular poets, Kolts6v, Nekrdsov, 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."
Baron Ant6n Ant6novich Dlvig 121
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!
122 The Nineteenth Century
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!
Aleksandr Sergyeevich Pushkin. (1799-1837.)
Pushkin was descended, on his father's side, from a family of dis-
tinguished men, aud, 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, Anna Rodi6novna, 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 Pushkin
entered the newly opened Lyceum at Tsdrskoe Sel6, where he did not
display any especial aptitude for studies ; but he soon began to write
Aleks&ndr Sergyeevich Ptishkin 123
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 gener-
ation, Rusldn and Lyudmlla. 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 Bakhchisaray Fountain ; in the neighbour-
hood of Odessa he composed his Gypsies and laid the foundation for
Evgeni Onyegin, besides writing a large number of smaller poems.
In 1824 Pushkin 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 capi-
tals. 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 Pugachev Rebellion. Aspersion upon his domestic
life caused him to challenge to a duel the son of the Dutch ambassa-
dor, by whom he was killed in 1837, in his thirty-eighth year.
Pushkin's great poetical genius has not been surpassed by that of
any other Russian poet, and has only been equalled by that of Le"r-
montov. 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 evi-
denced in the Russian novel. The celebration of the centennary an-
niversary of his birth has given rise to a wide-spread interest in
Pushkin, and his influence is again in the ascendant.
Pushkin'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. Peters-
burg, 1860 ; The Pistolshot, in the Albion, 1861 ; Russian Romance
(consisting of miscellaneous tales), by Mrs. J. B. Telfer (nee Mour-
avieff), London, 1873 an ^ 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 Igel-
strom 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
124 The Nineteenth Century
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 front 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 Kusl&n and Lyudmila, The Prisoner, The Robbers, in Russian
Literature and Poetry, in Foreign Review, 1827 ; extracts from The
Fountain of Bakhchisaray and Poltava in The Foreign Quarterly
Review, 1832 ; The Talisman, with Other Pieces ( The Hermit), trans-
lated by George Borrow, St. Petersburg, 1835 ; Pushkin, the Russian
Poet (containing October ig, 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, Remem-
brance, I have outlived the hopes that charmed me, Motion, To the
Slanderers of Russia, Presentiment, The Madonna, Andre Chenier),
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 Gertnan Poets, by a Russian Lady
(containing two extracts from The Gypsies, The Poet, The Angel,
The igth 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) ; / 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 Monu-
ment, The Poet, in John Pollen's Rhymes from the Russian, London,
1891. In Free Russia have appeared : by Charlotte Sidgwick, in vol.
x., No. i, 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. n ; by F. P.
Marchant, Scene from "Boris Godunov," in No. 13, The Shield of
Oleg,\n No. 15, The Prophet, The Three Springs, The Prayer, Truth,
Aleksandr Sergyeevich Pushkin 125
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. Mag-
nus, Through clamorous 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 in-
dignation, feeling convinced that if I gave expression to
it, it would have been perfectly useless. The brigands in-
vaded every part of the fortress, and plundered the officers'
houses. On every side resounded the shouts of the drunken
mutineers. I reached home. Save'lich 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 Andreich, 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 PugacheV
to my guide was very striking. I felt convinced that Pug-
acheV 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 pe-
lisse, given to a roving vagrant, had saved me from the hang-
man's noose, and a drunkard, who had passed his life in
i26 The Nineteenth Century
wandering from one inn to another, was now besieging
fortresses and shaking the empire !
"Will you not eat something?" asked Sav61ich, 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 Ivdnovna and be her protector and de-
fender. 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 Tards Kurochkin could not bear
it; he had to give the besom to Fomkd Bikbdev, 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 recep-
tion I should meet with from Pugachev, and endeavouring
to guess how it would end. The reader will easily under-
stand that I did not by any means feel easy within myself.
It was beginning to get dark when I reached the Com-
Aleksandr Sergyeevich Ptishkin 127
mandant's house. The gibbet, with its victims, loomed
black and terrible before me. The body of the poor Com-
mandant's wife still lay at the bottom of the steps, near
which two Cossacks stood on guard. The Cossack who ac-
companied 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
Ivdnovna. An unusual spectacle presented itself to my
gaze. At a table, covered with a cloth and loaded with
bottles and glasses, sat Pugachev 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 Shvabrin and his fellow traitor, the orderly.
"Ah! your Excellency!" said Pugachev, 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. Pugachev 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, address-
ing him sometimes as Count, sometimes as Timofe"ich, some-
times 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 Pugachev.
And in this strange council of war it was resolved to march
upon Orenburg; a bold movement, and which was to be
very nearly crowned with success. The march was fixed
for the following day.
" Now, lads," said PugacheV, " before we retire to rest,
let us have my favourite song. Chumak6v, begin! "
My neighbour sang, in a shrill voice, the following melan-
choly peasant's song, and all joined in the chorus:
128 The Nineteenth Century
" 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 j udge, before the Tsar himself.
Tlbe great I^ord 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 sonor-
ous 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 Pugache'v.
I wanted to follow them, but Pugache'v said to me:
" Sit down; I want to speak to you."
We remained face to face.
For some moments we both continued silent. Pugache'v
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
Aleksandr Sergyevich Pushkin 129
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 king-
dom! 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 em-
peror 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 indigna-
tion, appeared to me now a useless boast. I hesitated. In
gloomy silence Pugachev 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 Pugache" v :
" 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."
VOL. II. Q.
i3 The Nineteenth Century
" Who am I, then, in your opinion ? "
" God only knows; but whatever you may be, you are
playing a dangerous game."
PugacheV 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 Grishka Otrpev 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 noble-
man; I have taken the oath of fealty to the Empress; I can-
not serve you. If you really wish me well, send me back to
Orenburg."
PugacheV 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 your-
self 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 Pugachev.
"Be it so," said he, slapping me upon the shoulder.
" One should either punish completely or pardon com-
pletely. 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 Pugache" v 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
Aleksandr Sergyevich Pushkin 131
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 Savelich
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 appe-
tite, 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 "EVGENI ONYEGIN"
TATY ANA'S LETTER TO ONYEGIN
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,
The Nineteenth Century
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 ?
Aleks&ndr Sergyeevich Pushkin 133
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 Iieut.-Col. Spalding's Eugene OnSguine,
I,ondon, 1881.
FROM "THE BAKHCHISARAY 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,
134 The Nineteenth Century
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!).
Aleksandr Sergyeevich Piishkin 135
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,
Anchar, 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 globed 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.
136 The Nineteenth Century
But yet a man's imperial nod
Sent forth a fellow-man afar,
Whose meek, obedient footsteps trod,
Right to the base of foul Anchdr.
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. i).
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,
Aleks4ndr Sergyevich Piishkin 137
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 ringers 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.
138 The Nineteenth Century
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.
Aleksandr Sergyeevich Ptishkin 139
THE LAY OF THE WISE OLEG
Wise O16g to the war he hath bound him again,
The Khozdrs 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 Perun did that sorcerer pray,
Fulfilling the prophet's dread mission:
His life he had wasted in penance and pain :
And beside that enchanter Oleg drew his rein.
"Now rede me, enchanter, beloved of Perun,
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,
Chopse 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:
The Nineteenth Century
"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 shall 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 ! ' '
Ole"g smiled a moment, but yet on his brow,
And lip, thought and sorrow were blended:
In silence he bent on bis 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 Oleg a fresh courser they lead.
Ole'g 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:
Aleksandr Sergyevich Piishkin 141
They talk of old times, of tlie days of their pride,
And the fights where together they struck side by side.
" But where," quoth Oleg, " 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.
O16g 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 O16g went to see.
Ole'g he rode forth with his spearmen beside;
At his bridle Prince Igor 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.
i4 2 The Nineteenth Century
The mead-cups are foaming, they circle around,
At Olg's mighty Death-Feast they 're ringing;
Prince Igor and Olga 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 Prdga'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
Oil Moscow's flaming wall, blood-slaked and ruin-quenched,
Spurned back the insolent dictation
Of Him before whose nod ye blenched ?
Aleksandr SergyevicK Ptishkin 143
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 '11 know their brethren's graves!
From T. B. Shaw' s Pushkin, the Russian Poet, in
Blackwood's Magazine, 1845.
FROM "BORIS GODUNOV"
Night : A cell in the Chudov monastery
FATHER PIMEN, GRIGORI (sleeping).
Pimen (writing before a lamp}. Once more, one final anec-
dote, 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 lyord 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,
144 The Nineteenth Century
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.)
Grigdri (wakes). That dream again ? How strange ! That
cursed 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 N6vgorod ?
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
Aleksandr Sergyevich Pushkin 145
Or hatred or compassion knowing not.
Pimen. Art thou awake ?
Grig6ri. Thy blessing, honoured sire.
Pimen. The Lord His blessing grant thee, oh, my son,
To-day, hereafter, and for evermore !
Grigdri. I^ong 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?
Pimen. '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.
Grig6ri. How gaily must have passed thy youthful days!
Thou wast in battle 'neath Kazan'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,
VOL. II. 10.
146 The Nineteenth Century
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.
Pimen. 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,
Kirill, 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 '11 appear with hunger to be saved;
Aleks^ndr Sergyeevich Pushkin 147
Thou Nikodim, thou Sergi, thou Kirill,
And all of ye, accept my heartfelt vow !
I '11 come to you a sinner in despair;
I '11 take upon myself the monk's harsh garb,
I '11 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 Fe6dor ? 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.
Feodor 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. u.
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.
148 The Nineteenth Century
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!
Evgeni Abramovich Baratynski 149
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.
Evgfcni Abramovich Baratynski. (1800-1844.)
Baratynski was the most talented of all the contemporary poets of
Pushkin. He came of a distinguished family in the Government of
Tamb6v. 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 Pushkin'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 Re-
warded; the same, under the title The Madonna, translated by F. P.
Marchant, in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 28.
150 The Nineteenth Century
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, contempor-
raneous with the world. Like them may he for ever be un-
changeable !
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 ex-
ploits 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 father-
land ? 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.
Evgni Abramovich Baratynski 151
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 wilder-
ness 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.
i5 2 The Nineteenth Century
But wherefore has the disappointment of the soul not been
complete ? Why lives within me the blind pity of my youth-
ful dreams ?
Thus I once murmured, meditating about my heavy lot:
suddenly I saw it was no dream Truth before me.
44 My light will show the path to happiness! " said she.
44 Let me but wish, and I will teach you, impassioned one,
joyful dispassionateness:
44 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.
4 ' 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!
4 ' 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 !
44 No, I am not yours: in your severe science I shall not
find happiness ! Leave me : I will somehow manage to wan-
der 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 ! ' '
Nikoldy Mikh&ylovich Yazykov. (1803-1846.)
Yazykov was born in Simbirsk, 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 Zhuk6vski and Pushkin, 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
Nikolay Mikhaylovich Yazykov 153
are his best. Ill health soon drove him abroad, and there he com-
posed his famous To the Rhine ; his other poems of the same period
have a religious and patriotic tinge. Yazykov'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 unascertain-
able). In C. T. Wilson's Russian Lyrics, London, 1887, are given
The Earthquake, Evening, Flayer.
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 ascertain able).
154 The Nineteenth Century
THE STORM
Lo! behind the distant mountains is concealed the beauti-
ful 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, trem-
bling 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 varie-
gated pictures of the windings of the Sor6t, 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.
Mikhail Yiirevich Lrmontov 155
TO THE POET
When inspiration has grown one with you, and your
breast heaves mightily with it, and you perceive your con-
secration 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.
Mikhail Ytirevich L6rmontov. (1814-1841.)
LeVmontov 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 lan-
guages 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 uni-
versity for some scandalous pranks, he entered in 1832 the School of
the Guard Cadets at St. Petersburg, where he soon gained the reput-
ation of a clever poet of immodest verses. After graduation he
passed his life in a whirl of society pleasures at St. Petersburg and at
156 The Nineteenth Century
Tsdrskoe Sel6. Pushkin's death, in 1837, roused Le"rmontov 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. Le"rmontov
was at that time little known to the public at large, though his poem
" Borodin6 " had just appeared, as he kept himself aloof from the
literary coteries. He first attracted universal attention by his Ballad
of the Tsar Ivan Vasilevich, 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 h?ving fought a duel, but
the next year he was killed in another duel with a fellow-officer.
Le'rmontov 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 Pushkin'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 there-
fore characterises the transition period from Pushkin to G6gol. He
was entirely under the influence of Byron, without, however, inherit-
ing 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 biograph-
ical 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 Mlsyri has appeared under the name, The Cir-
cassian Boy, translated through the German, by S. S. Conant, Boston,
1875.
The following separate poems have been translated into English :
Mikhail Ytirevich Lrmontov 157
The Gifts of Terek, by T. B. Shaw, in Edinburgh Blackwood Maga-
zine, 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 Black-
wood'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 front Palestine, by C. T. Wilson, in
Russian Lyrics, London, 1887 ; The Angel, The Voyage, Prayer,
Thanksgiving, On Death of Ptishkin, 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. i, My Country, ib., No. 4; by Mrs. Ch. Sidgwick, At a Ball,
ib., No. 2; in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society have been pub-
lished: by F. P. Marchant, The Angel, The Prayer, in No. n, 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"
MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH
Leaving Maksim Maksimych, I rode at a rapid gait
through the Te"rek and Daryal canons, breakfasted in Kaz-
be"k, drank tea at Lara, and hastened away for supper to
Vladikavkdz.
I stopped at the inn where all passengers stop 1 was
told that I should have to pass three days longer here, since
the chance-team had not yet returned from Ekaterinogrdd
and, consequently, could not start on its return journey.
158 The Nineteenth Century
The first day I passed lonely. Early in the morning of
the next day a vehicle drove into the yard. "Ah, Maksim
Maksfmych!" 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 !
Maksim Maksimych 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 Armen-
ians drove into the yard of the inn, and behind them an
empty carriage.
" Thank the Lord! " said Maksim Maksimych, approach-
ing 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 car-
riage! "
The lackey did not turn around, but muttered something
as he opened the portmanteau. Maksim Maksimych 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 ? "
" Pech6rin."
"You don't say? Pech6rin ? Oh, good God! Didn't
he serve in the Caucasus ? ' ' exclaimed Maksim Maksimych,
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 ! Grig6ri Aleksdndrovich ? That 's his
name? Your master and I have been friends," he added,
Mikhail Ytirevich Lermontov 159
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 to-
gether. But what has become of him ? ' '
The servant announced that Pech6rin would remain for
supper and the night at Colonel N.'s.
"Won't he come here in the evening?" said Maksim
Maksimych. " Or, are n't you going down to see him for
something or other? If you are, tell him that Maksim
Maksimych is here, he knows, I '11 give you eight griven-
niks 1 forv6dka." a
The lackey made a scornful grimace when he heard of
such a modest promise, but he assured Maksim Maksimych
that he would carry out his order.
" He '11 come right away! " Maksim Maksimych said to
me, with a radiant look. "I '11 wait for him outside the
gate. Oh, what a pity I don't know Colonel N."
Maksim Maksimych sat down on a bench in front of the
gate, and I went to my room.
An hour later an invalid brought a boiling samovdr and a
teapot. " Maksim Maksimych, 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; evi-
dently something has detained him."
He hurriedly sipped a cup, declined a second, and went
again outside the gate, somewat disturbed. It was clear
1 A grivennik is equal to ten kopeks, or about five cents.
8 Native brandy.
160 The Nineteenth Century
that Pechorin'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 Pechorin 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 Maksim Maksimych, 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 Maksim Maksfmych 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 Maksim Mak-
simych 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 Pech6rin should come."
I promised I would. He ran away as if his limbs had
regained their youthful vigour and flexibility.
I/ess 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 Maksim Maksimych.
The horses were already hitched. The bells now and then
tinkled over the yoke, and the lackey had already twice ap-
proached Pech6rin with the report that all was ready, but
Maksim Maksimych had not yet made his appearance.
Fortunately Pech6rin 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. ' '
Mikhail Ytirevich Lermontov 161
" Oh, that 's so! " he answered rapidly. " I was told so
yesterday; but where is he ? "
I turned to the square and saw Maksim Maksfmych run-
ning 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 Pech6rin'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 Maksim Maksimych ! Well, how
are you getting along ? ' ' Pech6rin 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, Maksim Maksimych, ' ' was his answer.
' ' O lyord ! 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! " Pech&rin answered, smiling.
" Do you remember our life in the fort? 'T was a fine
country for hunting! You were a passionate hunter! And
Be"la?"
Pechorin grew slightly pale and turned away.
; ' Yes, I remember ! " he said, yawning forcedly.
Maksim Maksimych 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 ? "
VOL. II. II.
1 62 The Nineteenth Century
" Really, I have nothing to tell, dear Maksim Maksimych.
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 Pech6rin, 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 ! ' ' Maksim Maksimych suddenly shouted,
catching hold of the door of the carriage: "' I almost forgot.
I have your papers, Grig6ri Aleksandrovich, 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 Pechorin. "Good-
bye!"
' ' So you are making for Persia ? When will you be
back ? " Maksim Maksimych cried after him.
The vehicle was far off, but Pech6rin 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 glit-
tered 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.
Mikhail Ytirevich Lrmontov 163
" Tell me," he continued, turning towards me: " What do
you think about it ? What demon carries him now to Per-
sia? 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, ,
"Maksim Maksimych," I said, walking over to him,
"what kind of papers are those that Pech6rin has left
with you?"
"God knows! Some memoirs. "
" What will you do with them ? "
" What! I '11 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 port-
manteau. Then he took out a notebook, threw it contempt-
uously 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 news-
papers. 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, fear-
ing that the captain might regret his action. They an-
nounced 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.
164 The Nineteenth Century
" Are n't you going, Maksim Maksimych ? "
" 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, Maksim Maksimych, 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, Maksim Mak-
simych."
" I should not have mentioned it, if I had not been egged
on. As for you, I wish you good luck and a happy jour-
ney."
We parted quite dryly. Good Maksim Maksfmych be-
came a stubborn, quarrelsome staff -captain ! Why? Be-
cause Pech6rin, 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 transi-
tory, but also not less sweet. But what is to take their
place in a man of Maksim Maksimych's years ? The
heart involuntarily becomes hardened, and the soul closes
up.
I travelled by myself.
Mikhail Ytirevich Lrmontov 165
FROM "THE DEMON "
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.
1 66 The Nineteenth Century
in
Now, o'er the Caucasus, on high,
Was Eden's outcast flying by.
Kazb6k, 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 Darydl 's winding
And Te"rek 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.
Mikhail Ytirevich Ldrmontov 167
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,
Kazbek-hill with Shat-the-mountain
Wrangled loud and long.
" Have a care, Kazbek, my brother,"
Shat, the grey-haired, spoke;
" Not for naught hath human cunning
Bent thee to the yoke.
1 68 The Nineteenth Century
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,"
Kazb6k, 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 !
L,o! 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.
Mikhail Ytirevich Lrmontov 169
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 Kazbek
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
Ivike 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,
1 70 The Nineteenth Century
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 Kazb6k 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,-
Mikhail Ytirevich Lermontov 171
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, an< * i n 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.
The Nineteenth Century
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. n.
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 ?
Mikhail Ytirevich L6rmontov 173
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
L,ate 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.
174 The Nineteenth Century
AT A
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
Mikhail Ytirevich Ldrmontov 175
The spell of those sweet days to save,
Unharmed, unstained by passion or by doubt,
lyike 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 Dagestana'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 Dagestdna'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' & Rhymes from the Russian.
176 The Nineteenth Century
Aleksyfcy Vasilevich Kolts6v. (1808-1842.)
Kolts6v was the son of a burgher of Vor6nezh who dealt in hides
and tallow. He received very little training in his coarse and ignor-
ant 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. Dmitriev'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 Kolts6v went to Moscow where he was introduced
to the critic Byelinski, who at once recognised the unusual talent of
the untutored bard. After a second visit, in 1836, the two became
staunch friends, and under Byelinski's influence Kolts6v produced
the best of his poems. He soon returned to the sordid surroundings
of his native place, and died shortly after of consumption. The strik-
ing picturesqueness of his verse, which is based on the inimitable, un-
translatable diction of the peasant, has given rise to two diametrically
opposed views : according to the one, he is the popular bard par ex-
cellence ; 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. Ral-
ston, 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. 1 6, and A Winter Wooing, The Mower, by Mrs. Rosa New-
march, 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 ;
Aleksyey Vasilevich Kolts6v 177
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.
VOL. II. 12.
178 The Nineteenth Century
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.
in
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 barn-
yards, 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.).
Aleksyey Vasilevich Kolts6v 179
THE FOREST
IN MEMORY OF PUSHKIN
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 heard est the nightingale's
Deluge of song
i8o The Nineteenth Century
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;
Aleksyey Vasilevich Kolts6v 181
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.
1 82 The Nineteenth Century
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 !
Aleksyy Vasilevich Kolts6v 183
In an unlucky day,
In an ill hour, alack,
I came into this world
With no shirt to my back !
There 's darling Grunyusha,
The Stdrosta'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 '11 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 '11 buy a new scythe,
And I '11 sharpen it well,
Aye, its edge I will whet,
Ere I bid a farewell
184 The Nineteenth Century
To my own native place.
Nay, Grunya, don't fret,
Don't worry, dear maid,
Though keen is the blade,
I '11 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 '11 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.
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!
1 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.
Nikolay Vasilevich Gogol 185
Now, scythe, hum a song,
Flash in circles thy blade ;
How the long grass-ranks fall
As the steel moves along !
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 Grunya !
1 '11 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 '11 betake me,
To the Starosta say:
' ' Though tears could not make thee
Give Grunya away,
Thou art not so hard
But my good pieces may."
Transl. by Mrs. Rosa Newmarch, in The
Anglo- Russian Literary Society, No. 30.
Nikolay Vasilevich G6gol ( Yan6vski). (1809-1852.)
G6gol was born in the Government of Poltava, 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 Zapor6g
Cossacks, and being an excellent story-teller, had imbued his grand-
son with the spirit of the recent Cossack past. At the Gymnasium,
G6gol 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
1 86 The Nineteenth Century
any work. He also tried literature, and in 1829 appeared bis romantic
tale Hans Kuchelgarten. It was so severely criticised that G6gol
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 Dikdnka, in which
the idealisation of the past and of his native country is already tem-
pered by realism. These Evenings at once made him known, and
he became intimate with Zhuk6vski and Pushkin. 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, Tar&s Bulba. 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 Revizdr has remained a classic in the Russian
repertoire. He was now completely launched into naturalism, and
was at once recognized by the critic Byelinski (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 mort-
gage them at the rate of three hundred roubles for each "soul."
This plot served G6gol as a thread on which to string his different
types of people. In 1836 G6gol 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 Black-
wood'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], (LovelPs 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. in.; The Cloak, in Short Stories, 1891,
and (with The Portrait and Old-fashioned Farmers} in Wayward
Dosia. bv Gr^ville, Chicago, 1891 ; Inspector General, or, Revizdr,
Nikolay Vasilevich Gogol 187
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 IS.
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 an-
ciently 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,
1 88 The Nineteenth Century
and may be seen as far as the human eye can see. Proceed-
ing 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 won-
derful, 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 REVIZOR
ACT I. (room in the Burgomaster's house). SCENE i. THE
BURGOMASTER, CURATOR OF CHARITABLE INSTITU-
TIONS, INSPECTOR OP SCHOOL, JUDGE, CAPTAIN OP
POLICE, DOCTOR, TWO SERGEANTS OF POLICE
Burgomaster. Gentlemen, I have called you together to
give you a very disagreeable piece of news: a Revizor is
coming.
Judge. What, a Reviz6r ?
Curator. What, a Reviz6r ?
Burgomaster. A Revizor 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
Nikolay Vasilevich Gogol 189
unusual size. They came, nosed around, and went away.
I '11 read to you the letter I received from Andre"y Ivanovich
Chmykhov whom you, Arte'mi Filippovich (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 instruc-
tions 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 precau-
tion, 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 Kirilovna
has been visiting us with her husband; Ivdn Kirilovich 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, Ant6n Ant6novich
(Burgomaster) ? Why is the Revizor 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, Anton Ant6novich, that there is a deli-
cate reason of a political nature behind all this. It 's simply
this: Russia, you see, is about to wage war, and the Minis-
ter 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
i9 The Nineteenth Century
The government is pretty shrewd about things: never
mind its being far away, but the government is on the look-
out.
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, Art6mi Filippovich ! 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 Ivdnovich, 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 bet-
ter 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 Ivanovich 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 '11 die anyway; and
if he is to get well, he '11 get well anyway. Besides, it would
not be an easy matter for Christian Ivdnovich to carry on a
conversation with them, he does not know a word of Rus-
sian.
(Christian Ivdnovich emits a sound, somewhere between ee
and eh.)
Burgomaster. I should advise you also, Amm6s Fe"doro-
vich, 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 praise-
worthy to raise your own geese, and there is no reason why
janitors should not rear them; only, don't you know, it
Nikolay Vasilevich G6gol 191
is n't quite the thing to raise them in that place 1 had in
mind to tell you that before, but I somehow forgot.
Judge. Well, I '11 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 Reviz6r 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 Ivdnovich might help him with some of his
medicaments.
(Christian Ivanovich 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 Andre"y Ivdnovich 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, Ant6n Ant6no-
vich? 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, Anton Ant6uovich. But suppose a
man's fur-coat costs five hundred roubles, and his wife's
shawl
The Nineteenth Century
Burgomaster. What of it if your bribes consist in grey-
hound 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, Lukd Lukich, 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 Reviz6r, 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 j r ouths.
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
Nikolay Vasilevich G6gol 193
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 '11 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 '11 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 in-
cognito! He '11 suddenly poke in his nose: "Ah, there you
are, my darling ! Who, ' ' will he say, ' ' is the j udge here ? ' '
" Lya'pkin-Tydpkin." " Fetch me in Lyapkin-Tydpkin !
And who is the Curator of the Charitable Institutions ? "
" Zemlyanika." " Fetch in Zemlyanika! " 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 Ivanovich Bobchfnski.
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 'sit! I thought so myself.
Burgomaster. Well, you 're both wrong.
Postmaster. I insist, with Turkey. It 's all the French-
men's doing.
Burgomaster. Nonsense, war with Turkey! It 's we
VOL. II. 13.
194 The Nineteenth Century
who '11 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, Ivan
Kuzmich ?
Postmaster. How I feel ? How do you feel, Ant6n An-
t6novich ?
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 Reviz6r
come to us ? Listen, Ivan Kuzmich, 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 Kostromd and
Sardtov 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
Nikolay Vasilevich Gogol 195
it with great, very great feeling. I purposely kept the let-
ter. Do you want me to read it to you ?
Burgomaster. Well, this is not the right time for it. So
do me the favour, Ivdn Kuzmfch: 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 '11 get into trouble yet.
Postmaster. Good gracious!
Burgomaster. Not at all, not at all. It would be a differ-
ent 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 com-
ing to tell you, Ant6n Ant6novich, that I wanted to present
to you a puppy, a sister to that dog that you know. You
have heard that Che"ptovich and Varkhovinski 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, BOBCHINSKI AND DOBCHINSKI ENTER,
OUT OF BREATH
BobcMnski. An extraordinary occurrence !
Dobchinski. An unexpected occurrence!
All. What, what is it ?
Dobchinski. An unforeseen affair: we come to the inn
Bobchinski (interrupting him). Petr Ivanovich and I come
to .the inn
Dobchtnski (interrupting). Eh, permit me, Petr Ivano-
vich, let me tell it.
Bobchinski. Oh no, let me let me, let me you are n't
a good speaker
Dobchinski. And you '11 get confused and you '11 forget
something.
Bobchinski. No, I won't, upon my word, I won't. Don't
196 The Nineteenth Century
i
bother me, let me tell it, don't bother me! Please, gentle-
men, do tell Petr Ivdnovich 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 Ivdnovich, here is a chair for you. (All sit
around the two Petr Ivdnovichs.) Well, what is it, what ?
Bobchinski. Allow me, allow me; I '11 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 Ivdnovich! I
know it all, truly, I do. So, you see, I ran to Kor6bkin's
house. As I did not find him at home I turned in to Ras-
tdkovski's, and as I did not find him at home I stopped at
Ivdn Kuzmfch'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 Ivdnovich.
Dobchtnski (interrupting). Near the booth where they sell
cakes.
Bobchinski. Near the booth where they sell cakes. Yes,
and as I fell in with Petr Ivdnovich, I said to him: " Have
you heard the news that Ant6n Ant6novich has received in a
trustworthy letter ? ' ' But Petr Ivdnovich had already heard
that from your housekeeper Avd6tya, who had been sent for
something or other to Filip Ivdnovich Pochechuev.
Dobchtnski (interrupting'). For a keg of French brandy.
Bobchtnski (warding him off with his hand}. For a keg of
French brandy. So Petr Ivdnovich and I came to Poche-
chuev Now, Petr Ivdnovich, please don't don't in-
terrupt me, please, don't interrupt me! We went to
Pochechuev, and on the way Petr Ivdnovich 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 Ivdnovich's stomach " In
the inn," says he, " they have received some fresh salmon,
so we '11 have a bite." No sooner had we entered into the
inn, when a young man
Dobchfnski (interrupting). Of good appearance and in citi-
zen's clothes
Nikolay Vasilevich G6gol 197
Bobchinski. 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 Ivdnovich: "There 's
something up here. ' ' Yes. And Petr I vanovich 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 '11 be an innkeeper like his father. So, calling up Vlas,
Petr Ivdnovich 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 Ivdnovich, 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, " Ivdn Aleksdndrovich Khlestak6v,
sir, and he is on his way," says he, " to the Government of
Sardtov, 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 Ivanovich
Dobchtnski. No, Petr Ivanovich, it was I who said ' ' Oho! "
Bobchlnshi. 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 Saratov ? ' ' Yes, sir, he is that
very official.
Burgomaster. Who what official ?
Bobchinski. The official about whom you have received
that information, the Reviz6r.
Burgomaster (terrified}. Don't say that, the Lord be with
you! it is n't he.
Dobchinski. 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 Saratov.
Bobchinski. He he upon my word, he He is so ob-
serving : he watches everything. He saw Petr Iv&novich and
198 The Nineteenth Century
me eating salmon, mainly because of, on account of, Petr
Ivdnovich's stomach yes, he even looked into our plates.
I just trembled with fear.
Burgomaster. Ix)rd, have mercy upon us sinners! Where
is he staying there ?
Dobchtnski. Number five, under the staircase.
Bobchtnski. The same room that the transient officers had
a fight in last year.
Burgomaster. Has he been here long.
Dobchtnshi. 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 ! Shame-
ful ! ( Tears his hair. )
Curator. Ant6n Ant6novich, had we not better make an
official call in the inn ?
yudge. 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 Bobchfaski.) You say, he is a young
man?
Bobchtnski. 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 sur-
face. You, gentlemen, make your proper arrangements,
and I '11 go myself, or maybe with Petr Ivdnovich, privately,
just for a walk to see that travellers are properly treated.
Here, Svistun6v!
Svistunov. 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.)
Nikolay Vasilevich Gogol 199
Curator. Let us go, let us go, Amm6s Fe'dorovich. 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 '11 wish he
had not done it. It 's now fifteen years I have been occupy-
ing 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, Inspectot
of Schools, and Postmaster go out, and in the door bump
against the returning sergeant?)
FROM "DEAD SOULS"
MRS. KOROBOCHKA
" 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 ot 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 "
" Kor6bochka, college secretary."
" Much obliged. And your Christian name and patro-
nymic ? ' '
" Nastasya Petrovna."
"Nastasya Petr6vna? It's a fine name Nastasya Pe-
tr6vna. I have an aunt, my mother's sister, whose name
is Nastdsya Petrovna."
200 The Nineteenth Century
"And what is your name ? " asked the proprietress: " you
are the tax-collector, if I am not mistaken ? "
"No, motherkin!" answered Chichikov 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 '11 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 lock-
smith too."
" Have you had a fire, motherkin ? "
1 ' 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 drink-
ing hard. A blue flame came out of him, and he burnt all
up, and grew black like coal. Oh, he was such a fine black-
smith! 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 Chichikov
heaving a sigh: " we must say nothing against the wisdom
of God Turn them over to me, Nastdsya Petr6vna! "
"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 '11 pay you for them."
" How do you mean that ? I declare, I can't see through
it. Do you intend to dig them up ? "
Nikol^y Vasilevich G6gol 201
Chichikov 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 pay-
ing for them all this time, and I will deliver you from
trouble and expenses. You understand ? I will not only
deliver you, but I '11 pay you fifteen roubles to boot. Well,
is it clear now? "
" I confess, I don't know," said the proprietress deliber-
ately: " 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," Chichikov
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 in-
terrupted 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 my-
self all obligations. I '11 even have the deed made out at
my expense, do you understand that ? "
The old woman became pensive. She saw that the busi-
ness was indeed advantageous, but so new and unusual that
202 The Nineteenth Century
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 Chichikov.
" 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 Protopopov, 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 nap-
kins."
" 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 '11 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 Chichikov 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, Chichikov had no
special reason to lose his patience: there is many an honour-
able man, a man of state, who is a fine reproduction of Mrs.
Kor6bochka. 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 perspira-
tion, Chichikov resolved to try her from another side, hoping
to get her at last on the right path.
Nikoliy Vasilevich G6gol 203
" Motherkin, either you do not want to understand my
words, or you are just talking, to be a-talking. I am offer-
ing you money, fifteen roubles in assignats, do you under-
stand ? 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 gather-
ing 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."
Chichikov did not doubt that after such convincing proof
the old woman would finally capitulate.
" Really," answered the proprietress, " I am such an in-
experienced widow! I think I had better wait a little:
maybe some other purchasers will come, and I '11 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.
' ' Pead souls on the estate ! What a guess you have made !
What do you want to do with them ? Use them for scare-
crows 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.
204 The Nineteenth Century
4 ' Well, where else would you make use of them ? Be-
sides, 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.
44 What are you thinking about, Nastasya Petr6vna? "
" 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 '11 come another time, and will take
your hemp. How is it now, Nastasya Petr6vna ? ' '
" Upon my word, it 's such a strange article, and so odd."
Here Chichikov'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.
14 Oh, don't mention him, God be with him! " she cried out,
while growing pale: 44 Only night before last the accursed
one appeared to me in my dream. I had carelessly been lay-
ing 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."
44 1 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! "
<4 What curses you are uttering! " said the woman, look-
ing at him in terror.
44 1 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 contrac-
tor " 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 Nastasya
Petr6vna; at least she spoke in an almost imploring voice:
4 4 But what has made you so dreadfully angry ? If I had
Vissarion Grigorevich Byelinski 205
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 '11 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 Korobochka.
Chichikov asked her to write a letter to him granting him
power of attorney, and, to save more trouble, began to com-
pose the letter himself.
" It would be nice," Kor6bochka 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 '11 go and tell Fetinya
to make some griddle cakes."
Vissarion Grig6revich Byelinski. (1811-1848.)
Few persons have exerted such a far-reaching influence upon
Russian literature as the critic Byelfnski, and a whole generation of
writers was cast in the mould of his aesthetic views. Byelinski was the
son of a district physician in the Government of Pe"nza. 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
206 The Nineteenth Century
and poverty. Then he took his first critical essay, Literary Dreams,
to a magazine, and his literary career began. Under Schelling's in-
fluence he denied the previous importance of Russian literature, and
proclaimed the nascent genius of Gogol, who had just made his
appearance. Between 1836 and 1838 Byelinski's circle of friends
vaulted over to Hegel's philosophy, and under this new influence
Byelinski rejected all lyrics and satire as not compatible with an un-
biassed, objective contemplation of the phenomena of life, and dis-
credited 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 Father-
land. Here began the third and most important period of his activity :
he soon recanted his former aesthetic 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 G6gol. 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 invari-
ably tempt the poets to idealise, and that bear upon them-
selves a foreign stamp. That was G6gol'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 ap-
ply to the works of all the Russian poets, by stretching the
Vissari6n Grig6revich Byelinski 207
point a little, the old and obsolete definition of poetry as
' ' Nature adorned ' ' ; but it is impossible to do so in relation
to Gogol'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 them-
selves by bringing out moral persons, together with the im-
moral 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 be-
tweeners left out of sight the main thing, namely, art ; for
it did not occur to them that their virtuous and vicious per-
sons were not men, not characters, but rhetorical personifica-
tions 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 compre-
hension. However, not even talented writers and geniuses
are always able to escape the influence of theory. G6gol
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, fol-
lowing his deep and true artistic instinct with which Nature
had endowed him lavishly, and without being tempted to
208 The Nineteenth Century
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.
Gogol's influence on Russian literature has been enorm-
ous. 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. Gogol 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 Karamzin and Dmitriev, who had chosen for their
productions high and noble objects, and adduce as an ex-
ample of now forgotten prettiness the sentimental song: "Of
all the flowerets I loved most the rose! " But we shall re-
mind them that the first noteworthy novel, was written
by Karamzin, and its heroine was " Poor Lfza," a peasant
girl, who was seduced by a coxcomb But, they will
say, everything is decent and pure there, and the Moscow
Vissari6n Grigorevich Byelinski 209
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 educa-
tion, 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 repre-
sent.
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 anj r -
thing 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 them-
selves 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 con-
viction 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 forgot-
ten its former purpose. ' ' Poetry, ' ' they say, ' ' used to in-
struct 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 refine-
ment ; then, at the end of the novel there always appeared a
VOL. II. 14.
210 The Nineteenth Century
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 abund-
ance 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 senti-
mental
' ' But now ! See what they are writing about now ! Peas-
ants in bast shoes and gabardines who often smell of brandy;
an old woman a kind of centaur, by whose dress one can-
not 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 serv-
ice, 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 dis-
ciples 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 nar-
rative, 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
Vissarion Grig6revich Byelinski 211
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 in-
dolence, 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 sor-
row 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, Nikita Fedorych,
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 damn-
able book tells him the exploits of his Nikita Fedorych, 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 progeni-
tor Away with that wretched book !
Now imagine again another man in a comfortable condi-
tion, who in his childhood had been running about bare-
footed, had been a messenger-boy, and at fifty had somehow
212 The Nineteenth Century
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 experi-
ences 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 con-
tempt and ironical smile Who are they, these feudal
barons, that they loathe the ' ' low-born mob ' ' that in their
ej'es 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 grand-
father 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, be-
cause to proclaim it would be the croaking that announces
Vissari6n Grigorevich Byelinski 213
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 reputa-
tion 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 peas-
ants?" 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 arti-
san'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,
214 The Nineteenth Century
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 proto-
types ? Is not for the anatomist and physiologist the organ-
ism 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 edu-
cation, but that in no way interferes with many a peasant's
being higher than he, for example, as regards his mind, feel-
ings, 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 severelj r
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.
Vissarion Grig6revich Byelinski 215
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 con-
solation, and the robber, who breathed his last on the cross
as a well-deserved punishment, for one moment of repent-
ance, 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 cult-
ure of private individuals. See, how in our century every-
body is interested in the lot of the lower classes, how private
philanthopy is everywhere being changed into state institu-
tions, 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 de-
tractors 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
216 The Nineteenth Century
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 phenom-
ena ? 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 peo-
ple 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 encour-
aging 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 insepar-
able. 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 im-
portant 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.
Sergyey Timofeevich Aksakov. (1791-1859.)
Aksdkov represents the rare example in Russian literature of an
author who passed from the pseudo-classic style to the realistic
Sergyey Timofeevich Aksakov 217
school of G6gol without taking part in the intervening Romantic
movement. He was born at Ufa, and graduated from what was then
the Kazan 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
Shishk6v, Karamzin's opponent. In 1827 he was made a censor, in
which capacity he gained an unenviable reputation as an unscrupul-
ous partisan. In the thirties he came under the influence of G6gol,
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 Orenburg country, abounding in ex-
quisite 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 win-
dow frame with its tiny panes was lifted up to its fullest
capacity, because his bed was curtained with a bar of home-
spun 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
Bugurusldn 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, unac-
countable pining for which I would now gladly give the rest
of my flickering life.
218 The Nineteenth Century
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. V&nka Mazdn and
Nikdnorka Tanaych6nok were snoring on the floor on which
they were stretched out in laughable, though artistic, pos-
tures. "I declare, the dog's children are snoring!" said
grandfather and smiled again.
Stepdn Mikh&ylovich 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 re-
freshed by a whiff of the morning moisture. I just said that
Anna Vasilevna 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 Stepdn Mikhdylovich
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
4 ' my grandfather's good day," in order to contradict the
Sergyy Timofeevich Aksakov 219
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. Natur-
ally there were left indecent traces of their calls, but grand-
father 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
Spiridon, who was called Spirka 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 Buguruslan 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 mer-
rily in the sky; the quails called loudly in the fields; the
songs of the skylarks rang out in the air; the crake cried
220 The Nineteenth Century
hoarsely, sitting in the bushes; the whistling of waterhens,
and the locking 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 Stepdn Mikhaylovich's merry voice reassured them:
" Mazan, fetch me some water! Tanayche"nok, wake Aks-
yutka and the lady, and tea!" There was no need of
repeating the commands: awkward Mazdn 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 Tanayche"-
nok awoke the homely servant girl Aksyiitka who only fixed
the kerchief that had slipped from her head and at once went
to wake the good old lady Anna Vasilevna. 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 samovdr in the shape of a huge brass tea-pot, and
Aksyutka was busy attending to it; the old lady, Anna
Vasilevna, bade Stepdn Mikhdylovich good-morning, with-
out sighing and groaning, as would be proper on other morn-
ings, 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 Arisha;
he never kissed her hand, but gave her his hand to kiss as
a token of his favour. Anna Vasilevna 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, Arisha! " said Stepdn Mikhdy-
Sergyey Timofeevich Aksakov 221
lovich, " 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 Stepan Mikh-
dylovich passed a good night, but that Tanytisha had tossed
a great deal. Tanytisha 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 Tanyusha, but let her awaken herself. Tatydna
Stepanovna had been wakened together with Aleksdndra
and Elizaveta Stepdnovna and they were all dressed, but
they did not dare tell him that. Tanyusha immediately un-
dressed 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 be-
cause Tatydna 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. Stepdn Mikhdy-
lovich graciously gave them his hand to kiss and called one
Lizdnka and the other L,eksana. Neither of them was a
silly girl. Aleksdndra 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 Stepan Mikhdylovich, 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 un-
ceremonious 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.
222 The Nineteenth Century
Having drunk his tea and talked over all kinds of things
with his family, grandfather got ready for the field. He
had told Mazdn 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
Spirid6n 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 Spirid6n 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 head-
gear 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. Spirid6n 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 Bagr6v servants ' ' madderlings " ; I
heard that nickname myself some fifteen years after my
grandfather's death.
Stepdn Mikhdylovich 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
Sergyey Timofevich Aksakov 223
village elder, if he was not with him, and the inquest began
right on the spot. This time everything went off favour-
ably; there may have been some untouched spots, only
Stepan Mikhdylovich 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, in-
vestigated matters closely, and forgot nothing. Passing by
a fallow field and noticing ripe strawberries, grandfather
stopped and with the aid of Mazan gathered a fine bunch
full of fine, large berries which he took home as a present
for his Arisha. 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, Arisha," merrily spoke grandfather, " it is a fine
harvest God is giving us! The L,ord'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! " Stepan Mikhaylovich 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, Nikolka Ruzaii, stood behind grand-
father with a large birch-branch, in order to drive away the
flies. The hot cabbage soup, which a Russian will not refuse
224 The Nineteenth Century
in the hottest weather, grandfather sipped from a wooden
spoon, because a silver spoon burned his lips. Then fol-
lowed 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. Mazdn and
Tanaych6nok, 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. Tanaych6nok put on his master's
garment and seated himself on the porch, and Mazdn 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, Mazdn pointed to Tanaychenok's
figure that was sitting on the porch in morning gown and
Sergyy Timofeevich Aksakov 225
night-cap. The pitcher was filled with beer, ice was put
into it, and Mazdn 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.
Tanaychenok 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 Mazdn
and Tanaychenok, trembling with fear, fell down before the
master's feet, and what do you suppose grandfather did?
He laughed out loud, sent for Arisha 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. Stepdu Mikhaylovich noticed that and came very
near getting angry. His brows began to be furrowed, but
his soul was so full of calm restful ness 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 neces-
sary 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 be-
came 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 Vanka Mazdn, having
once swept the sleeping room of Stepan Mikhdylovich and
just getting ready tp 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
VOL. II. 15.
226 The Nineteenth Century
blow with his viburnum stick, but that was only for fun, to
have a good laugh at Mazdn'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 Bugurusldn which flowed under the very windows of
the house, and, upon returning, found his whole family wait-
ing for him at the same tea table, which was now placed in
the shade, with the same boiling teapot-samovdr, and with
the same Aksyiitka. 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, Aleksan-
dra and Tatydna Stepdnovna, 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 them-
selves 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 Niko-
lashka Ruzdn, 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, Elizaveta Stepanovna, went,
as much to please her father as from her own love of farming,
with Stepdn Mikhdylovich to look at the mill and the
grinding. The young boy now looked at the sister's an-
gling (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. Grand-
father 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
Sergyey Timofeevich Aksakov 227
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 canie 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 Boltunenok jumped down to examine
the wheel. He said :
"You are right, Father Stepan Mikhdylovich ! One pin
is a li'.tle worn off."
" Yes, yes, a little," replied grandfather without any dis-
pleasure. " If I had not come, the wheel would have broken
over night. ' '
" It is my fault, Stepan Mikhdylovich, 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." r
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
Mordvinian: "Look here, neighbour Vasyukha! Don't
you see there is not a single unbroken grain ? If you let the
stamping go on, there will be less of flour." Vasyukha
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 barn-
yard. 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
228 The Nineteenth Century
to the usual allowance, twenty pounds of wheat flour a
month for cakes. Stepdu Mikhdylovich returned in good
spirits to Ar{na Vasilevna, and he was satisfied with every-
thing: his daughter was clever, the mill was grinding well,
and the fowlkeeper Tatydna Gorozhdna 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, Stepan 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 leap-
ing up, but Stepdn Mikhdylovich was not fond of fishing.
"Arisha, 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 Elizaveta Stepdnovn a seated herself with
her brother in the other waggon. Stepdn Mikhdylovich 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 re-
quest 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 per-
mitted another one to marry off his sou, 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
Aleksyey Stepanovich Khomyakov 229
of strong home-made brandy, and this cup held more than a
heakerful. 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 Stepan Mikhaylovich 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 Mazdn
and Tanaychenok 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.
Aleksyey Stepdnovich Khomyak6v. (1804-1860.)
Khomyak6v was born in Moscow, where he passed his early child-
hood 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
230 The Nineteenth Century
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 Khomyak6v's Complete Works, vol. iv.,
Moscow, 1900) ; The Island and To Russia, in Russia and the Eng-
lish Church, vol. i. (reprinted in Khomyak6v'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.
Aleksyey Stepinovich Khomyak6v 231
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.
232 The Nineteenth Century
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 3 r e, Pilgrim-Brothers, say,
Your homage who to God devote ? "
1 ' 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."
44 1 come from cold Ladoga's Lake" ;
44 1 from the Neva's soft blue face " ;
44 1 come from Kama's flowing stream " ;
44 And I from Moscow's fond embrace."
Vll hail, Kiev! most wondrous town,
With turbid stream which Dnieper laves!
Grander than seats imperial are
The silent shadows of thy caves.
Aleksydy Stepanovich Khomyak6v 233
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 consumed 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,
234 The Nineteenth Century
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.
Ffcdor Iv&novich Tyfitchev. (1803-1873.)
Born almost at the same time with Pushkin, Tyutchev continued
the tradition of Pushkin'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,
Tyutchev remained unknown to the middle of the century, when
Nekrasov and Turg6nev rediscovered him. His verses are very melo-
dious 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 Polleu, 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 Sun-
rise, by Dole, was also given in the Ladysmith Leader and Welling-
ton 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.
F6dor Ivanovich Tyutchev 235
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,
236 The Nineteenth Century
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.
Aleksandr Ivanovich Gertsen (Herzen).
(1812-1870.)
Gertsen was the son of a rich landed proprietor by the name of
Yakovlev, 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, Gertsen 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. Peters-
burg, 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 Khomyak6v and the Aksakovs, while the
Westerners gathered around Gertsen and OgareV. In 1847 Gertsen
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 constitutional-
ism in Russia. In From the Other Shore (originally published in
German) he expressed his disenchantment with the West, and in
P&st and Reflections he has given a series of vivid pictures of his
Aleksandr Ivanovich Gdrtsen 237
times. His influence as a political agitator and as a man of letters
may be traced through several generations in Russia.
Ge*rtsen 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 quarrel-
ling 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 direc-
tions, 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 subordina-
tion 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 icono-
graphic ideals and incense smoke have hindered our discern-
ing the national life and the foundations of the village
commune.
The Orthodoxy of the Slavophiles, their historical patriot-
ism and exaggerated, irritating feeling of nationality were
provoked by extremes in the other direction. The import-
ance 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
238 The Nineteenth Century
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 Ger-
many.
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 rene-
gades. 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 Domostroy and the extremely Russian, but exceed-
ingly 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 as-
sumed 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 Aus-
trian 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 rehabilita-
tions, 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 gov-
Aleks4ndr Iv^novich Gertsen 239
ernments 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 recollec-
tion 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 Menshikov and
the other royal jesters in the shape of savage hunters,
poisoned in the ravelin of the St. Petersburg fortress, in the"
shape of Tsarevich Alexis, it appeared as the party of the
Dolgortikis during the reign of Peter II., as the hatred of
the Germans under Biron, as PugacheV 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 Ger-
mans to be killed at her coronation).
All the dissenters are Slavophiles.
All the white and black clergy are Slavophiles of a differ-
ent sort.
The soldiers who demanded the removal of Barclay de
Tolly for his foreign name were the predecessors of Khom-
yakov and his friends.
240 The Nineteenth Century
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 Karamzin and
Pushkin, and in Emperor Alexander himself. It was prac-
tically 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 trans-
formed it according to European models ; they in general
translated the Graeco-Roman patriotism from French into
Russian, and did not go beyond the verse
Pour un cceur bien n, que la patrie est chtre !
It is true, Shishkov even then raved of reestablishing the
ancient style, but his influence was limited. The real popu-
lar diction was used only by the Frenchified Count Rostop-
chin 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 Zag&skin, 1 who called Shuya,*
^Manchester and Shebuyev, a Raphael, and who boasted
of the bayonets and the expanse from the ice of Tornea 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 Prok6pi
L,yapun6v, from Schiller.
To cut loose from Europe, from enlightenment, and from
revolution, which kept him in terror ever since the i4th of
December, Nicholas, on his side, raised the banner of Ortho-
1 Russian novelist of the beginning of the century.
s Manufacturing town in the Government of Vladimir ; famous for
its raw sheepskins.
Aleksandr Jv^novich Gertsen 241
doxy, 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 Zag6skin,
the uncouth iconography, the uncouth architecture, by Uvd-
rov, by the persecution of the Uniates, and by The hand
of the Almighty has saved the fatherland S
The meeting of the Moscow Slavophiles with the Peters-
burgian 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 r61e as a Croatian agitator and at the same
time was near to Ban Jelacic. Muscovites believe in foreign-
ers 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 oc-
curred 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 dis-
gust. Fortunately the witty statistician Andr6sov saved the
bloodthirsty bard: he jumped up from his chair, grabbed a
1 A line in Ozerov's tragedy Dimltri Donskby (see vol. i., p. 418).
VOL. II. 16.
242 The Nineteenth. Century
fruit knife, and said: " Gentlemen, pardon me, I shall leave
you for a moment; it has just occurred to me that my land-
lord, the old piano-tuner Diez, is a German; I '11 just run
down to cut his throat, and I '11 be back in a trice."
A thunderous laughter drowned the indignation.
Nikolay Plat6novich Ogar6v. (1813-1877.)
Ogare"v -was born in the Government of Pe"nza, in the estate of his
father, where he was educated till his fourteenth year. He then at-
tended 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 propagand-
ist, he excels even more as a poet. His tender verses remind of
Le'rmontov, 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. n,
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 ISKANDER 1
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!"
1 Pseudonym of Herzen ; see p. 236.
Nikolay Plat6novich Ogarv 243
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. n.
244 The Nineteenth Century
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 misera-
ble, 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 eter-
nity, 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;
Count Aleksyey Konstantinovich Tolst6y 245
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 any 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 Aleksyey Konstantinovich Tolstoy.
(1817-1875.)
Count Tolst6y's youth was passed in the estate of his uncle in the
Government of Chernigov. 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. Peters-
burg and devoted himself to literature. He at first wrote a series of
lyrics and some ballads which are perfect in technique but lack ani-
mation. After the Crimean War he was attached to the Court, and
his renewed literary activity bore better fruits : the result of his care-
ful historical investigations was the novel Prince Serebryany and the
tragedy The Death of Ivan the Terrible. There is no historical novel
in Russian that surpasses Prince Serebryany in its artistic setting and
scrupulous adherence to facts. Tolst6y also wrote two other trage-
dies that form a trilogy with The Death of Ivan the Terrible, but
246 The Nineteenth Century
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
Alesha Popdvich is the best.
Prince Serebryany has been translated three times : Prince Sere-
brenni, translated by Princess Galitzine, 2 vols., London, 1874 ; Prince
Serbryani, an Historical Novel of the Times of Ivan the Terrible and
of the Conquest of Siberia, by Jeremiah Curtin, New York and Lon-
don, [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 Liter-
ature, reprint of J. Pollen's Believe it not, and Renewal, by Prince
Wolkonsky.
FROM "PRINCE SEREBRYANY"
Tsar Ivdn Vasilevich 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 Onufrevna.
His nurse was an old woman. She had been taken to the
Upper Apartments by Grand Prince Vasili Ivdnovich of
blessed memory, she had served under Ele"na Glmski. lodnn
was borne in her arms, and in her arms did the dying father
bless him. They said of Onufrevna that much was known
to her which nobody even suspected. During the minority
of the Tsar, the Glinskis had been afraid of her; the Shuyskis
and Byelskis tried in every way to gain her favour.
Onufrevna discovered many hidden things through divina-
tion, and she was never mistaken. She predicted of Prince
Telepnev during his very greatness, loann was then only
four years old, that he would die of starvation. And so it
Count Aleksyey Konstantinovich Tolst6y 247
happened. Many years had passed since then, but that pre-
diction was still fresh in the memory of old men.
It was now almost the tenth decade that Onufrevna 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.
Onufrevna bent with her bony hand on a staff. She
looked at lodnn for a long time, drawing in her sered 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, Ivan Vasile-
vich ! It will take a great deal of praying to get forgiveness.
If you had only your old sins upon your soul ! God is mer-
ciful, 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, Onufrevna, ' ' said the Tsar, rising, ' ' you do not
know what you are saying! "
" I do not know what I am saying ! Have I grown in-
sane, 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 boyar? 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 be-
yond the grave. lodnn 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
248 The Nineteenth Century
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.
loann 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 Onufrevna, stirred him
through and through with a feverish chill. He seated him-
self upon the bed. His teeth chattered against each other.
' ' Well, father ? ' ' said Onufrevna, 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 sin-
ning. 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."
lodnn 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, Onufrevna, 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 re-
nounce 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 Shuyskis poisoned
her."
Count Aleksyy Konstantinovich Tolstoy 249
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. Ivan Vasi-
levich shuddered.
The old woman made the sign of the cross with her trem-
bling hand.
"Just see," she said, " how it is raining! And it is be-
ginning to lighten ! And there is also thunder, father; God
have mercy upon us ! "
The storm increased in fury, and soon the sky was dis-
turbed by uninterrupted peals of thunder and a continuous
sheet of lightning.
loatm shuddered at every thunderclap.
" What a chill you have, father! Wait a moment, I '11
have them make you some mulled honey."
" It is not necessary, Onufrevna, 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! "
loann did not answer. He was intent on listening to
something.
" Onufrevna," he suddenly said in fright, " who is walk-
ing 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, Onufrevna! "
The old woman opened the door. A cold wind burst into
the room. Beyond the door appeared Malyuta.
" Who is that ? " asked the Tsar, leaping up.
" Your red dog, father," answered the nurse, casting an
angry glance at Malyuta, ' ' Grfshka Skurdtov. How the
accursed one has frightened me ! ' '
' ' Lukyanych !" said the Tsar, made happy by the arrival of
his favourite, ' ' you are welcome ; where do you come from ? ' '
250 The Nineteenth Century
" From the prison, sir. I was at the inquest, and I have
brought the keys."
Malyuta 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, Grishka, will be licking hot pans for all your
calumnies! You, accursed one, will be boiling in pitch, re-
member my word ! ' '
Lightning illuminated the threatening woman, and she
was terrible with her uplifted staff and her sparkling eyes.
Malyuta himself felt a little uncomfortable; but lodnn was
emboldened by the presence of his favourite.
" Pay no attention to her, Lukydnych," he said, " know
what you are about, and don't listen to women's babble.
But you, old fool, go away and leave us! "
Onlifrevna's eyes sparkled once more.
1 ' Old fool ? " she repeated. ' ' You will think of me in the
next world ! All your companions, Vdnya, will receive their
retribution, and they will receive it even in this world, every
one of them, Gryazn6y, Basmanov, and Vydzemski. Each
of them will receive his due, but this one," she continued,
pointing with her staff at Malyuta, " this one will not re-
ceive 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,
Vdnya, a big, warm place! "
The old woman went out, shuffling her feet and making
a noise with her staff.
lodnn was pale. Malyuta did not speak a word. The
silence lasted quite a while.
"Well, Lukydnych?" said the Tsar at last, "do the
Kolychevs confess ? ' '
" Not yet, sir. But they will, or they won't get off so
easily from me?"
Count Aleksyy Konstantinovich Tolstoy 251
loatm asked for the details of the inquest. The conversa-
tion about the Kolychevs gave another direction to his
thoughts. It appeared to him that he might be able to fall
asleep. He sent Malyuta 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 moon-
beam 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.
Ivdn Vasilevich was again terrified amidst this silence.
Suddenly it seemed to him as though the floor was being
raised and a poisoned bo3 r ar looked out from underneath.
Such visions were common occurrences with lodnn. 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 boyar 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 loaun.
" 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 lodnn.
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, Ivdn!" spoke a hollow, unearthly voice. "I
greet you, who have destroyed an innocent man."
These words re-echoed in the very depth of lodun's soul.
He did not know whether he heard them from the appari-
tion, or whether his own thought found expression in sounds
tangible to the ear.
Then another board was raised; underneath appeared the
face of Danila Addshev who had been executed by lodnn
four years before.
252 The Nineteenth Century
Addshev, too, rose from the floor, bowed to the Tsar, and
said:
" Hail, Ivdn ! I greet you who have executed an innocent
man!"
After Addshev there appeared the boydr'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, Ivdn! I great you!"
Then appeared Prince Kurlydtev, Prince Obole'nski,
Nikita Shereme'tev, and other persons who had been killed
or executed by lodnn.
The room was filled with dead people. They all bowed
low to the Tsar, and all said :
" Hail, hail, Ivan! I greet you! "
And there rose monks, hermits, nuns, all in black gar-
ments, all pale and blood-covered.
And there appeared warriors who had been at Kazdn 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 lodnn and lisped:
"Hail, hail, Ivdn, 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 lodnn'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 Ix>rd ! God will judge us all! "
The dead people moaned and circled around lodnn, like
autumn leaves driven by the whirlwind. The singing of
the vigils sounded more pitifully, the rain again beat against
Count Aleksyey Konstantinovich Tolst6y 253
the window, and amidst the howl of the wind, the Tsar
thought he heard the sound of trumpets and a voice calling:
" Ivan, Ivan, 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 oprichniks 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 Vydzemski. 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 gar-
ments, 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 in-
habitants 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 oprichniks, who were dressed in the identical black
cloaks and hoods, carried pitch torches. Their light was
wonderfully reflected upon the carved pillars and wall deco-
rations. 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 lodnn fell down exhausted.
The torches illuminated an old woman that was sitting on
254 The Nineteenth Century
the steps. She stretched out her trembling hand to the
Tsar.
" Rise, father! " said Onufrevna. " I will help you. I
have been waiting for you for a long while. Come, Vdnya,
let us pray together ! ' '
Two oprichniks 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 oprichniks, 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 Malyuta will hear
you!"
At the mention of Malyuta the child stopped crying and
in its fright pressed close to its mother, and during the still-
ness of the night there were again heard the psalms of the
oprichniks, and the continuous ringing of the bell.
Count Aleksyy Konstantinovich Tolstoy 255
THE DEATH OF IVAN THE TERRIBLE
ACT I. SCENE 2.
( The Tsar's bedchamber. Ivdn, 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 Monomdkh ; on the
other side, on a stool, are the royal vestments. Grigdri
Nagoy is handing him a goblet, .)
Nag6y. O Tsar! one drop of wine thou 'It drink,
One drop refuse not. Thou these many days
Dost wear thyself out. All this time thy lips
Have nothing touched.
Ivdn, The body needs no food
When the soul is fed on anguish. Henceforth
Remorse shall be my food.
Nag6y. O mighty Tsar !
Is 't true thou wouldst forsake us ? How will it
With the Tsaritsa be ? with the TsareVich
Thy Dimitri ?
Ivdn. God will not forsake them.
Nagdy. But who can hold the reins of government
Except thyself ?
Ivdn. 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-prof aner I :
The boundlessness of God's long-suffering
Have I exhausted by the last misdeed.
Nagdy. O Tsar ! Thou dost exaggerate thy sin ;
Thy mind went not with it. Thou meantest not
To slay the Tsare" vich : thy staff by accident
Did give the blow.
256 The Nineteenth Century
Ivdn. '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 '11 lay on him
At once the regal mantle and the crown !
(Exit Nagoy.)
The end of all! And hither am I broifght
Along the lengthened path of majesty.
What have I met with on 't ? Sufferings alone.
Count Aleksyy Konstantinovich Tolst6y 257
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 boyars 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, " Ivan, take care! In thee
Satan would seat him. Open not thy soul
To him, Ivan." 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 blessed count my soul.
From The Death of Ivdn the Terrible,
transl. by I. H. Harrison.
THE KURGAN
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,
VOL. II. 17.
258 The Nineteenth Century
Singers foretold his fame to be,
Golden the lute he bore.
4 ' 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
I^ow 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.
Ivan Aleksandrovich Goncharov 259
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.
Ivan Aleksandrovich Goncharov. (1812-1891.)
Gonchar6v was born in Simbirsk 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 Gonchar6v 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,
Ftigate Palldda, 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, Obldtnov, 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
260 The Nineteenth Century
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 Gonchar6v 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. Gonchar6v's later novel,
The Declivity, was less successful.
In English there are some extracts translated from Oblbmov in the
Library of the World's Best I/iterature and in Garnett's Universal
Anthology.
FROM "OBLOMOV"
" Go ahead with the description of the ideal of your
life Well, good friends around you: what next ? How
would you pass your days ? "
1 ' Well, I should rise in the morning, ' ' began Obl6mov,
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 arm-
chair! I seat myself at the table: upon it are toast, cream,
fresh butter "
"Then?"
" Then I don a comfortable coat or jacket, and lose my-
self 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
Ivan Aleksandrovich Goncharov 261
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, Ilyd! " 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 Oblomov, 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 Marya
Petrovna, 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
262 The Nineteenth Century
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 inter-
locutors you will perceive sympathy, in their jests, a sin-
cere, harmless laughter Everything from the soul!
What is in the eyes, is in the words and hearts. After din-
ner a mocha, a Havana cigar on the terrace ' '
" You are painting me there the same that has been with
our fathers and grandfathers."
1 ' No, not the same, ' ' retorted Oblomov, almost offended.
" How can you say so? Do you suppose my wife would
be preserving jams and mushrooms? Would she be count-
ing 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 kolymdga, 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 car-
riage with the samovdr, 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 con-
ceals 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 in-
verted sea, hovers over the rye; the horses jerk their shoul-
ders 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
Ivan Aleksandrovich Goncharov 263
of knives; there is a pan of mushrooms, cutlets, berries
there is music Casta diva Casta diva ! ' ' sang out Ob-
lomov. " 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 any-
thing She is alone The secret weighs heavily
upon her; she confides it to the moon "
' ' Do you like that aria ? I am very glad : Olga Ilinski
sings it beautifully. I '11 introduce you to her, what a
voice, what singing ! And what a charming child she her-
self 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 Oblomov, "what more ? yes, that 's
all The guests scatter to the side buildings, to the pa-
vilions; 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 ex-
istence ? " asked Obl6mov, "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, re-
ports, 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 j r ou ? "
"That is " Stolz fell to musing and was trying to find
a proper expression for such a life, " I should call it
Obl6movism ! " he finally said.
" Ob-16m-ov-ism!" Obl&mov uttered slowly, wondering
264 The Nineteenth Century
at the strange word, and pronouncing it by syllables: ' ' Ob-
16m-ov-ism ! " he looked strangely and fixedly at Stolz.
"What, then, in your opinion, is the ideal of life? What
is not Obl6movism ? " 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 Obl6mov kind," retorted
Stolz.
" Everybody is in search of rest and quiet," Obl6mov de-
fended himself.
" Not all, and you yourself did not look for that in life
ten years ago."
" What did I look for ? " Obl6mov asked, perplexed, as he
mentally transferred himself into the past.
"Try to recall it. Where are your books and transla-
tions?"
" Zakhar has put them somewhere," answered Obl6mov,
" 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 Zakhar stored away all these inten-
tions also in the corner ? Do you remember, you had in-
tended, 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 un-
noticed, dark, but incessant work, and to die with the con-
sciousness of having done your work ' well, in what corner
does all that lie now ? "
' ' Yes yes ' ' said Obl6mov, restlessly following
every word of Stolz's, " I do remember, I really did it
seems That 's so! " he suddenly exclaimed, as the past
Iv4n Aleksindrovich Gonchar6v 265
returned to him. " Why, Andre"y, we had made up our
minds to crisscross Europe, to walk through all of Switzer-
land, 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 hot-
houses, 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. Fool-
ish things! "
" Yes, yes! I remember," said Obl6mov, as he lost him-
self 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,
Andre"y, everywhere with you,' those are all your words.
You have always been something of an actor. Well, Ilyd ?
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
266 The Nineteenth Century
able or obliged to make use of that means ; what about
Russia? I have seen Russia up and down. I work "
" Sometime you '11 stop working," Obl6mov remarked.
' ' I shall never stop. Why should I ? "
" When you have doubled your capital," said Obl6mov.
" 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 Obl6movism! " said Stolz.
" Or by service to gain importance and position in society,
and then in honourable indolence to enjoy a well-deserved
rest "
" Petersburg Obl6movism! " exclaimed Stolz.
"When is one to live, pray?" Obl6mov 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 '11 try to raise you, maybe, for the last time. If you will
be staying here after that, with your Tarantevs and Alek-
sye"evs, you will go to perdition, and be a burden to your-
self. Now or never ! " he concluded.
Obl6mov 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, Andre"y , but really help me ! " he be-
gan 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 under-
stand 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, Ilyd ? " said Andre"y. " I remember you as a
Ivan Aleksandrovich Goncharov 267
slender, lively boy, as you walked every day from Prechfs-
tenka to Ktidrino; there, in the garden you have not for-
gotten 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 ? "
Obl6mov jumped up from his bed. " What, you remem-
ber that too, Andry ? 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, Andre"y? 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 mid-
day, 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 Nevski Prospect, among rac-
oon furcoats and beaver collars, at evening entertain-
ments, receptions, where I was gladly received as a possible
prospective bridegroom; I was going out and trifling away
268 The Nineteenth Century
life and reason when I migrated from the city to the coun-
try, and from the country back to the Gor6khovaya
street, measuring spring by the arrival of oysters and lob-
sters, 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 Obl6mov'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 Obl6mov. ' ' Yes, I am a thread-
bare, 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 Andre*y, 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 V61ga: 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!" Ob-
I6mov remarked languidly.
" I am not alone in that. There is Mikhaylov, Petr6v,
Sem6nov, Aleksyev, Stepdnov 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
Ivan Aleksandrovich Gonchar6v 269
flowed since then! " he said. " I will not leave you as you
are; I '11 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
Obl6mov.
" To-morrow we will apply for a passport abroad, then we
will pack up I will not leave you, do you hear, Ilyd? ' '
" It is always to-morrow with you ! ' ' retorted Oblomov, 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 '11 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 Zakhar, and Obl6movka ?
Some kind of arrangements will have to be made," Oblomov
defended himself.
" Oblomovism, Obl6movism! " said Stolz, laughing; then
he took a candle, wished Oblomov good-night, and went to
bed. ' ' Now or never ! Remember ! " he added, as he turned
back to Obl6mov 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.
" Zakhar! " he called out, but he did not hear him jumping
down from the oven bed. Zakhar did not make his appear-
ance, Stolz had sent him to the post-office. Oblomov
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
270 The Nineteenth Century
he looked down to see what he had written : it turned out to
be " Obl6movism. " 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. Zakhar arrived and when he found
Obl6mov 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 : ' ' Obl6movism ! ' '
"One single word," thought Ilyd Ilyich, "but how
poisonous ! ' '
Zakhar took, as. usual, the comb, brush, and towel, and
stepped towards his master to fix his hair. " Go to the
devil! " Obl6mov exclaimed angrily and knocked the brush
out of Zdkhar's hands, and Zdkhar himself dropped the
comb on the floor.
" Would you not like to lie down again ? " asked Zakhar.
" If so, I shall fix the bed for you."
" Bring me ink and paper," answered Obl6mov.
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
Obl6mov question was of more import to him than Hamlet's.
To go ahead, that would mean at once doffing his comfort-
able 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 ques-
tion, 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 pleni-
potentiary and send him into the village. Get your Obl6m-
Nikolay Aleksandrovich Dobrolytibov 271
ovka 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 Zdkhar and Tarantev, 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 Obl6movka, 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 fac-
tory, to the mill, the docks. At the same time you are to
read newspapers, books, and become excited why the Eng-
lish 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 Zdkhar's feet
as he jumps down from his couch, to dine with Tardntev, to
think less about anything, never to finish the ' ' Voyage to
Africa," to grow peacefully old in these chambers, at the
house of Tardntev's ladyfriend."
"Now or never!" "To be or not to be!" Obl6mov
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.
Nikoldy Aleks&ndrovich Dobrolyubov. (1836-1861.)
Dobrolyubov was the most powerful of critics belonging to the
school of Byelinski. In the short period of three years in which he
devoted himself exclusively to criticism, he produced four large vol-
umes of minute analyses of the intellectual and social movements at
the end of the fifties. His most famous essay is What is Oblbmov-
istn f in which he places all the heroes of previous novels in the same
category with the hero in Gonchar6v's story. Dobrolyubov was born
in Nizhni-N6vgorod as the son of a poor priest. He studied at a
Seminary and at the Pedagogical Institute at St. Petersburg, strug-
gling all the time against want. He practised much ascetism,
272 The Nineteenth Century
and kept strict account of himself and his mental evolution by means
of a diary. He later transferred this ascetism and scrupulous self-
examination to his literary work.
WHAT IS OBI/5MOVISM?
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 simi-
larity to Obl6mov. Indeed, open, for example, EvgSni
Onylgin, The Hero of Our Time, Who is to be Blamed, Rudin,
or Useless Men, or Hamlet of Shchigr&v County, ' in every
one of them you will find traits that are literally identical
with those in Obl6mov
One feels the breeze of a new life when, after reading
Oblomov, 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, Ony6gin, 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.
B61tov * and Rudin, men with really high and noble tend-
encies, 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 dis-
1 These works are by the following authors : Pushkin, L,e"nnontov,
Ge'rtsen, Turggnev, Saltyk6v, Turgnev.
* Hero in Who is to be Blamed?
Nikolay Aleksandrovich Dobrolyubov 273
cover 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 un-
fortunate 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 Obl6mov 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
Obl6movs in the true sense. The poor travellers who stand
below sink in the mire, serpents sting them, reptiles frighten
VOL. II. 18.
274 The Nineteenth Century
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 Obl6movs 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 Obl6movs! " And they begin to work with a vim and
without cessation : they cut down the trees, make a b 
