Book 2 / Act 1 — ACT I., SCENE I. DIMÍTRI AND THE OTHER PRINCES, BOYÁRS AND GENERALS
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Dimítri. Russian princes, boyárs, generals, you who have crossed the Don to find liberty and, at last, to cast off the yokes that have been forced upon us! How long were we to endure the dominion of the Tartars in our land, and, content with an humble fate, sit as slaves on our princely throne? Two centuries had nearly passed when Heaven in its anger sent that scourge against us; for almost two centuries the foes, now openly, now hidden, like hungry ravens, like insatiable wolves, have been destroying, burning, plundering us. I have called you here to avenge us: the time has now come to repay the foe for our calamities. The Kipchák horde has, like a gigantic burden, been lying on Russian shoulders, spreading desolation and terror all around, but now, heavy by its own weight, it has fallen to pieces. Civil strife, dissension and all the ills which heretofore had brought the Russian land to utter weakness, have now penetrated the horde. New khans have arisen who have torn themselves loose from it; but the insatiable tyrants, having barely risen, threaten our land. The most insatiable of them and most cunning, Mamáy, the accursed ruler of the Trans-Don horde, has risen against us in an unjust war. He is hurrying against us, and perhaps with to-morrow’s dawn will appear before our camp. But seeing the sudden union of the Russian forces, his heart was disturbed, and his mind misgave him, so he decided to send first an embassy to us. Friends of Dimítri, do you advise to receive them? Or, remaining firm in our heroic intention, shall we answer Mamáy in front of our army, when the first bold onslaught of the Russians would resound upon the earth and would frighten the Tartars?
Tverskóy. Let us give the answer before the army in the field of battle! None of us, O princes, can be more anxious than I to avenge ourselves on the inhuman foe. Whose family can compare with the Tverskóys in misfortunes they have borne? My grandfather and his sire, after endless tortures, lay their heads in the graves through the treachery of the infidel, and their ashes groan under the power of the horde. Grand Prince of Russia, you have called us hither not to enter into parley with Mamáy, but to decide in battle and end all discord with him....
Byelózerski. Oh, how happy am I to have lived to see this day, to contemplate here the concord and love among the princes, and the unanimous zeal in your hearts against the enemy! I, about to bear my age into the yawning grave, will be able to bring hope to the departed fathers, that the honour of the Russian land is to be reinstated, that her power and glory is to return. O shades of Vladímir, and you, shades of Yarosláv, ancestral heads of princely houses! In the lap of the angels you will rejoice, as you foresee the blessed time when the disunited nation of Russian tribes, uniting with one soul into one whole, will triumphantly appear a threatening giant, and united Russia will give laws to the world! Dimítri, your victory is certain! No, never before has such an army been gathered in so far-reaching a camp, either by your grandfather Iván, or Simeón the Terrible, or your meek father! I, the old leader of the forces of Byelózersk, have never seen Russia lead out such numbers of bold warriors. Of all the Russian princes, Olég alone has remained in idleness at Ryazán, and without interest in the expedition; his ear alone is deaf to the common groan. May the memory of those perish whose spirit can with quiet eye see the country’s woes, or rather, let their name with disgrace and endless shame pass to late posterity! Yet, my lord, however flattering your success may be, my advice is to receive the Tartar embassy, and if we can establish peace by paying a tribute to Mamáy.... (All the princes express dissatisfaction.)
Dimítri. O Prince of Byelózersk, what do you propose? Fearing strife, to acknowledge the Tartar’s power by paying a shameful tribute?
Byelózerski. To spare the priceless Christian blood. If we conquer Mamáy, look out, the hordes will once more unite for our common woe; beware, this temporarily successful exploit will again rouse their ambitious spirit, and they will perceive at last how injurious for their ambition their strife is, which separates their khans. The murders, fire, slaughter of wives and children which the Tartars have perpetrated against us, in their opinion, give the hordes a right over us. They deem Russia to be their patrimony. Seeing our bravery, they will stop their disorders, and will soon, united, bring misery on the Russians. Rather give them a chance to weaken in their destructive discord; let us gather strength in the peaceful quiet and, warding off the chances of war, choose peace instead of useless victory.
Dimítri. Oh, better death in battle than dishonourable peace! Thus our ancestors thought, thus we, too, will think. Those times are past when timid minds saw in the Tartars a tool of Heaven, which it is senseless and improper to oppose. In our days honour and the very voice of faith arm us against the tormentors. That voice, that prophetic voice of faith, proclaims to us that an immortal crown awaits the fallen in battle, that through the grave they pass to eternal joy. O Sérgi, pastor of souls, whom the groans of fellow-citizens have so often disturbed in your hermit prayers, and whose tears have so abundantly flowed lamenting the fate of the innocent, O you who with sacred hand blessed us for the impending battle! In your hermit cell, where you pass your humble days, listen to my words: inspired by you, they will inflame the Russian hearts to seek here liberty or the heavenly crown! ’Tis better to cease living, or not to be born at all, than to submit to the yoke of a foreign tribe, than with the name of payers of tribute to flatter their greed. Can we with such slavery avert our misfortunes? He who pays a tribute is weak; he who evinces a weak spirit invites arrogant lust to insult. But I am ready to receive the Khan’s messenger and to bring him before the assembly of the princes, not to listen to the shameless propositions of Tartar arrogance, but to announce to him the resolve for war, that he may read valour in our brows, and, shuddering, bear terror into Mamáy’s camp.
Smolénski. The whole assembly announces assent to your advice.
Dimítri. The messenger awaits the decision near the tent. You, Brénski, bring in the Tartars that have come to us!
Prince Iván Mikháylovich Dolgorúki. (1764-1823.)
Iván Mikháylovich Dolgorúki was the grandson of Prince Iván Aleksyéevich, the favourite of Peter II. (see p. 233). In 1791 he left the army with the rank of brigadier. He was then made Vice-Governor of Pénza, where he sought relief from the humdrum life of a provincial town in reading and in writing poetry. One of the first of his poems to attract attention was the envoi To my Lackey; he became universally known through his My Penza Fireplace. In 1802 he was appointed Governor of Vladímir. Not long after his return to Moscow he was forced to retire before the advancing Frenchmen. During his retreat he wrote his Lament of Moscow. His best poem is probably his Legacy. While not a poet of the first order, Dolgorúki displayed great originality and much depth of feeling. This is what he himself said of his poems: “In my poems I wished to preserve all the shades of my feelings, to see in them, as in a picture, the whole history of my heart, its agitation, the change in my manner of thinking, the progress of my thoughts in the different ages of my life, and the gradual development of my small talents. Every verse reminds me of some occurrence, or thought, or mood that influenced me at such and such a moment.... That is the key to the originality which many are so kind as to ascribe to my productions.” The Legacy was translated by Sir John Bowring.
THE LEGACY
When time’s vicissitudes are ended, Be this, be this my place of rest; Here let my bones with earth be blended, Till sounds the trumpet of the blest. For here, in common home, are mingled Their dust, whom fame or fortune singled; And those whom fortune, fame passed by, All mingled, and all mouldering;—folly And wisdom, mirth and melancholy, Slaves, tyrants,—all mixt carelessly. List! ’Tis the voice of time,—Creation’s Unmeasured arch repeats the tone; Look! E’en like shadows, mighty nations Are born, flit by us, and are gone! See! Children of a common father, See stranger-crowds, like vapours gather; Sires, sons, descendants, come and go. Sad history! Yet e’en there the spirit Some joys may build, some hopes inherit, And wisdom gather flowers from woe. There, like a bee-swarm, round the token Of unveiled truth shall sects appear, And evil’s poisonous sting be broken In the bright glance of virtue’s spear. And none shall ask, what dormitory Was this man’s doom, what robes of glory Wore he, what garlands crowned his brow,— Was pomp his slave?—Come now, discover The heart, the soul,—Delusion’s over,— What was his conduct?—Answer now! Where stands yon hill-supported tower, By Fili, shall I wake again, Summoned to meet Almighty Power In judgment, like my fellow-men. I shall be there, and friends and brothers, Sisters and children, fathers, mothers,— With joy that never shall decay; The soul, substantial blessing beaming (All here is shadowy and seeming), Drinks bliss no time can sweep away. Friends, on my brow that rests when weary Erect no proud and pompous pile: Your monuments are vain and dreary, Their splendour cannot deck the vile. A green grave, by no glare attended, With other dust and ashes blended, Oh, let my dust and ashes lie! There, as I sleep, Time, never sleeping, Shall gather ages to his keeping, For such is nature’s destiny. My wife, my children shall inherit All I possessed,—’twas mine, ’tis theirs; For death, that steals the living spirit, Gives all earth’s fragments to its heirs. Send round no circling-briefs of sorrow, No garments of the raven borrow; ’Tis idle charge, ’tis costly pride. Be gay, through rain and frosty weather, Nor gather idle priests together To chant my humble grave beside. Cry, orphans! Cry, ye poor! imploring The everlasting God, that He May save me when I sink, adoring, Amidst His boundless mercy-sea. My blessing to my foes be given, Their curses far from me be driven, Nor break upon my hallowed bliss; God needs no studied words from mortals, A sigh may enter Heaven’s wide portals,— He could not err, He taught us this. No songs, no elegy,—death hearkens To music ne’er though sweet it be: When o’er you night’s oblivion darkens, Then let oblivion shadow me. No verse will soften Hades’ sadness, No verse can break on Eden’s gladness, ’Tis all parade and shifting glare:— A stream, where scattered trees are growing, A secret tear, in silence flowing, No monument as these so fair. Such slumber here, their memory flashes Across my thoughts.—Hail, sister, hail! I kiss thy sacred bed of ashes, And soon shall share thy mournful tale. Thou hast paid thy earthly debts,—’tis ended, Thy cradle and thy tomb are blended, The circle of thy being run; And now in peace thy history closes, And thy stilled, crumbling frame reposes Where life’s short, feverish play is done. I live and toil,—my thoughts still follow The idle world:—my care pursue Dreams and delusions, baseless, hollow, And vanities still false, though new. Then fly I earthly joys, I find them Leave terror-working stings behind them: “Beware, beware!” experience cries; Yet ah! how faint the voice of duty, One smile of yonder flattering beauty Would make me waste even centuries.
—From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part II.
MY MOSCOW FIREPLACE
Scarcely have we seen summer, behold, winter is here! The frosts drive us into our rooms, and will for a long time keep us within. Nature’s beauty is changed, and dimmed by the veil of night. Oh, what shall I do? What begin? I will move up to my dear fireplace, and will share with it, as before, my melancholy.
Whatever countries I have been in, whether my house was large or small, whether I paraded in high palace halls, or retired to my apartments,—the fireplace, my winter benefactor, was everywhere the witness of my acts: whole days I passed with it alone; pining, sorrows and annoyances, consolation, pleasure, joy,—my fireplace has experienced them all.
Whenever I mentally survey all human lots in this world, and by the fireplace in my study judge of humanity, I with difficulty can harmonise in my imagination the opinions of happiness that are common to all. The whole world lives in a noise and din; but what does it find in place of happiness? New causes for worriment.
Kings, of their own free will, leave the throne and hasten to arms; in their elevated place they not seldom curse their lives. No matter how boyárs grow stout, they also pale in their good fortune, like their lowest slave. He in his unbounded sphere, the other in his earth hut, or cave,—both are weak against the attack.
Everywhere they have written of happiness, and will always prate about it, but they have nowhere found it. Yes, ’tis difficult to attain! And I, though a simple man, can also like a philosopher aver it is within me; but where, and how to find it?—I do not know! In sorrow I suffer openly; whenever I am merry, ’tis as if in a dream.
Protesting against the evil of the passions, knitting his brow, like Cato, when all is quiet in his soul, the philosopher proclaims his law: “Why be enslaved by passions? We must submit to reason. All our desires are an empty dream; all upon earth, O men, is transitory: seek eternal happiness in Heaven, for the world is vanity of vanities.
“If one dish satisfies your hunger, why have three? If you have a caftan, what is the use of five? What need is there of a pile of money? When you die, you will not take it with you. Contract the limits of your necessities, flee from the city into the country, live quietly your allotted time, with equanimity bear insults, magnanimously suffer sorrow, be more than man!”
What are you yourself, my teacher? Are you a god, or an angel in the flesh? Guardian of deep wisdom, permit me to look within you! Reveal to us not your mind alone, but your feelings, announce to us without ambiguity: are you yourself? I see, you are a vain hypocrite: you do not believe your own sermon, you are an empty-sounding cymbal.
Oh, if people all lived as reason bids them! If feelings were more gentle, if the fount of blood did not boil,—how nice life would be! All would be peace and security, and love the tie of all the lands; people would not devour each other; and a Frenchman, an Arab, a Mussulman would live in harmony together.
Oh, if ... I need but place this word at the head, and my pen creates at once a new earth, nay, heaven. All kingdoms will flow with abundance, all men will be equally strong, nowhere there shall be snow, nor winter, but flowers will grow the year around, and we will not run to the fireplace,—we shall be regenerated.
Oh no! I am sorry for the fireplace! Let us leave all as it is: we cannot reproduce what my reason has evoked. Let the sphere circle around, and let each various chimera disport with every mind! The Creator will turn all for the best: to-day the chill disturbs us, but the thunder of the summer does not terrify us.
I hear at all times of the good qualities of countrymen, what beautiful lives they lead, and how the law of nature is not trampled upon by them. “Their manners,” they assert, “are coarser, but their amusements are incomparably simpler than ours: they live in freedom with each other, do not drink nor eat according to the fashion.” ’Tis not true!
When we listen to serenades on a beautiful summer day, while limpid waterfalls make a rippling noise, and the shade of cedars protects us from the heat, the peasant hitches his horse to the plough and tears up the earth, or hauls a log, or, if it be winter, looks through dim windows, through which nothing can be seen, at the blizzard without.
Fireplace, I will not exchange you for all the treasures of the lords! You are often my consolation, and always pleasant and agreeable to me. Let sorrows be inevitable: joy is coextensive with them. You are the throne of my amusements; but I am satisfied with my books; I feel with them neither pain, nor think my room small, and I read them as my spirit prompts me.
But when I leave my book, and fix my eyes upon the fireplace, with what pleasure I recall the host of various incidents! I at once reproduce in my mind the picture of my youth, and the progress and cause of my cares; I even now, as it were, glance to the north, and south, and the capital, and the Finland border.
I accuse myself before thee, my Lord! I have in vain killed my youth; carried on the wave of habit, I have given my days and nights to dreaming. I, tossed now hither, now thither, hastened to make new acquaintances, and thought: “This is all a loan I make; some day the debt, I am sure, will be duly returned to me.”
’Tis time to adapt myself to the custom! I shall soon be forty years old: it is time to learn from experience that to judge people rightly, to know this world, to seek friends is a self-deception and vain endeavour of the heart. The measure of human indifference is in our days full to overflowing; ask for no examples: alas! there are too many of them.
In your presence all will praise you, but let there be an occasion for helping you, and your worth will be depreciated, or without saying a word they will walk away. If one be cunning, he will so oppress you that he will compel you to think all your life of him in tears; if he be foolish, he will, wherever he may meet you, cast a heap of stones before you and bar your way.
From all such evils my consolation art Thou, only God, God of all creation! I need nothing more, for I expect no happiness from men. A hundredfold more pleasant it is, staying at home, and not perceiving in it the temptations of the world, to live simply with your family and, modestly passing your time and vigorously communing with reason, to stir the wood in the fireplace.
Iván Ivánovich Dmítriev. (1760-1837.)
Dmítriev was born in the Government of Simbírsk, where his friend and colleague Karamzín was also born. He entered the army in 1775 as a common soldier, and did not advance to the grade of commissioned officer until 1787. During his military service he privately studied foreign languages and wrote poetry. His first collection of poems, containing Ermák, What Others Say and The Little Dove, appeared in 1795. These are the best of his productions. He also wrote a number of fables that do not suffer by comparison with those of Krylóv. His shorter songs, like The Little Dove, have become very popular, and are part of every song-book, together with Neledínski’s “To the streamlet I’ll repair” and other similar songs. Dmítriev did for poetry what Karamzín was doing for prose,—he purified Russian from the dross of the Church-Slavic language, an inheritance from the days of Lomonósov, and he popularised the Romantic spirit in Russian literature. He also encouraged younger men of talent, such as Krylóv. Dmítriev rapidly rose in honours, until he was made Minister of Justice in 1810. He retired a few years later to his estates near Moscow, where he passed his days surrounded by a coterie of literary men.
The following English versions of his poems have appeared: During a Thunder-Storm, The Tsar and the Two Shepherds, The Broken Fiddle, Over the Grave of Bogdanóvich, Love and Friendship, in Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part I.; Yermak, Moskva Rescued, To the Volga, Enjoyment, “O had I but known before,” The Little Dove, To Chloe, ib., Part II.; Counsel, The Little Dove, in W. D. Lewis’s The Bakchesarian Fountain; Yermak, The Siskin and the Chaffinch, The Doctor, Sympathy, in C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics; The Moon, in Fraser’s Magazine, 1842 (article, Russian Fabulists).
THE LITTLE DOVE
The little dove, with heart of sadness, In silent pain sighs night and day; What now can wake that heart to gladness? His mate beloved is far away. He coos no more with soft caresses, No more is millet sought by him, The dove his lonesome state distresses, And tears his swimming eyeballs dim. From twig to twig now skips the lover, Filling the grove with accents kind, On all sides roams the harmless rover, Hoping his little friend to find. Ah! vain that hope his grief is tasting, Fate seems to scorn his faithful love, And imperceptibly is wasting, Wasting away, the little dove! At length upon the grass he threw him, Hid in his wing his beak and wept; There ceased his sorrows to pursue him, The little dove for ever slept. His mate, now sad abroad and grieving, Flies from a distant home again, Sits by her friend, with bosom heaving, And bids him wake with sorrowing pain. She sighs, she weeps, her spirits languish, Around and round the spot she goes; Ah! charming Chloe’s lost in anguish, Her friend wakes not from his repose!
—From W. D. Lewis’s The Bakchesarian Fountain.
DURING A THUNDER-STORM
It thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow! Ancient of days! Thou speakest from above; Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now; That hand which scatters peace and joy and love. Almighty! Trembling like a child, I hear Thy awful voice, alarmed, afraid, I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild, And in the very grave would hide my head. Lord! What is man? Up to the sun he flies, Or feebly wanders through earth’s vale of dust: There is he lost ’midst heaven’s high mysteries, And here in error and in darkness lost. Beneath the stormclouds, on life’s raging sea, Like a poor sailor, by the tempest tossed In a frail bark, the sport of destiny, He sleeps, and dashes on the rocky coast. Thou breathest, and the obedient storm is still. Thou speakest,—silent the submissive wave; Man’s shattered ship the rushing waters fill, And the hushed billows roll across his grave. Sourceless and endless God! Compared with Thee, Life is a shadowy, momentary dream, And Time, when viewed through Thy eternity, Less than the mote of morning’s golden beam.
—From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part I.
ERMÁK
How strange a sight is this I see, By thee revealed, Antiquity! Beneath the gloomy garb of night, By the pale moonbeam’s cloudy light, I gaze upon the Irtýsh stream, Whose waters foaming, whirling, gleam, As on they rush with angry tide. Two men I see, exhausted, there, Like shadows in the murky air; Their faces in their hands they hide. One youthful is, the other old, His beard hangs down with wavy fold; Each wears a dress whose every part With awe and wonder fills the heart; Descending from their helmets down, The coiling tails of serpents frown, Mingled with owlet’s bristling wing, Their coats wild-beasts’ skins borrowing. Their breasts entire with thongs are hung, Of flints, and rusty iron, strung; Within each belt is firmly prest A knife, whose edge well sharpened is; Two drums are at their feet, I wis, And close beside their lances rest: They both are sorcerers of Siberian race, And thus the meaning of their words I trace. THE OLD MAN “Roar on, old Irtýsh, let our cry Along thy stream re-echoing fly; The gods have chastening sent in ire And poured on us misfortunes dire.” THE YOUNG MAN “Woes, woes, upon us tenfold lour In this our most disastrous hour.” THE OLD MAN “O thou, whose crown three nations bore, Their names far-spread from shore to shore! O mighty, proud, and ancient State, Mother of many races great! Thy glory’s past and worn away, No longer chief, thou must obey!” THE YOUNG MAN “As clouds of dust from whirlwinds hie, So scattered quite thy people lie; And he, Kuchúm,[166] dread of the world, Is dead, on foreign deserts hurled.” THE OLD MAN “The holy Shamans, forced from home, Throughout the rugged forests roam; For this, ye gods of earth and air, Was it that white has grown my hair? Tell me, was it for this that I, Through all my life your faithful slave, Prostrate in dust before ye lie, And thousands for companions have?” THE YOUNG MAN “And who are they have made thee fall?” THE OLD MAN “From Russia come they, one and all; Why did not plague and famine loom Upon our land with frightful doom? Better if elemental wrath Had fall’n in fury on our path, And swallowed up Siberia’s fame, Than bow before this Ermák’s name.” THE YOUNG MAN “Of Nature’s self the curse and blight, May curses heavy on him light! Ye streams, and mountains old, ’tis he Has flung upon you infamy!” THE OLD MAN “As fiery columns passing on, As icy blasts the land upon, All fell by his destructive tread; Where’er his fatal arrow sped, There life grew pale, and death’s dire smart O’ertook each timid, cowering heart.” THE YOUNG MAN “By him deprived of mortal breath, Our royal brother met his death.” THE OLD MAN “As I looked on, the hero’s might Shone forth in that terrific fight; ’Twas on Muhammad-Kula’s[167] plain— Such fight I ne’er shall see again. His arrows hurtling in swift course, His breast enkindled with strange force, He drew from out its sheath his blade— ‘Rather than weary life give death, Free from captivity,’ he saith, And fierce assault upon Ermák he made. Most terrible the sight! as clash Their swords, the lightnings from them flash; Blow fell on blow with frightful sounds. They give and they receive new wounds. They seize each other in their rage, And dreadful combat still they wage; Arm against arm—breast against breast— They in their struggle know no rest; The wild woods with their cries resound, They dig up with their feet the ground: From brows ran down, like hail, their sweat, And fearfully their bosoms beat; Their heads incline from side to side, And thus they grapple, to each other tied, Still struggling on; until the weight Of Ermák seals his foeman’s fate. ‘The victory’s mine!’—’tis thus he cries: ‘The land before me subject lies!’” THE YOUNG MAN “Accomplished is the prophecy, That this our land should conquered be. But shall the oppressèd sigh in vain, And never more to freedom rise again?” THE OLD MAN “Eternal is the fatal yoke: Listen, my son! Late yesternight Into the silent woods I took My way; and there, while rapturous light Enkindled all my inmost soul, Burnt sacrifice I offered whole, And to the gods made fervent prayer That they would to our aid repair: When, suddenly, the winds arise, From off the trees the fresh leaves fall, The cedars groan with creaking cries, The goats away are scattered all. Down sank I, when, above the noise Of the dire storm, I heard a voice Thus speaking: ‘Furious war does wage Racha[168] ’gainst sinners; to his rage All those who sin devoted are; Siberia has renounced my laws, And righteous, therefore, is the cause Why she be subject to the fierce White Tsar.[169] By morn and night ye shall be found Alike in heavy fetters bound; But Ermák’s name shall never fade, Nor of his race an end be made; They ’neath the moon shall ever be Eternal in their majesty.’ When ceased the voice, the thunders loud Rattled from out each stormy cloud; On us has fallen Misfortune’s hand, Woe”—— THE YOUNG MAN “Woe to us, and our land.” Then, while they yield to deepest sighs, They from the moss-strewn stones arise, And while their arms again they wear, Along the shore they disappear. Peace, Ermák, on thine ashes rest! Thine image of bright silver made, Which in Siberia’s mines was laid, Is by the crown of Russia prest. But why speak I with hasty zeal? What do my foolish words reveal? We do not even know the place Where rest thy bones in earth’s embrace. The wild beasts trample them upon, Or Ostiaks, as they hurry on, Chasing the antlered stag, and roe, To bring them by their arrows low. But, hero, from thine anger cease, And let thy memory know peace! Poetic genius every day, When golden morning’s beauties play, Shall o’er thy corpse still float along, And greet thee with triumphant song. What matters it in any case If to barbaric times we trace Thy birth? Yet thou such deeds hast done As have thy land victorious shown. Although thine ashes disappear, Though e’en thy sons no likeness bear To thee, but, their great sire forgetting, Their livelihood in wild woods getting, They dwell the wolves and bears amid, Yet never shall thy name be hid. Thou shalt with demigods find place, From age to age, from race to race; And ne’er shall darken thy bright ray Until grows dark the orb of day; When with a crash the heavens fall, And time shall cease to be, and ruin cover all.
—From C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics.
WHAT OTHERS SAY
“How strange! More than twenty years have passed since we, with mind intent and furrowed brow, have assiduously been writing odes, yet we nowhere hear praises sung to them or us! May it be that Phœbus has sent forth his stern decree that none of us should ever aspire to equal Flaccus, Ramler[170] and all their brotherhood, or ever be renowned as they in song? What do you think? I took yesterday the pains to compare their song and ours: in theirs, there is not much to read! a page; if much, three pages, and yet what joy to read! You feel—how shall I say it?—as if you flew on wings! Judging by their briefness, you are sure they wrote them playfully, and not labouring four days: then why should we not be more fortunate than they, since we are a hundred times more diligent and patient? When one of us begins to write, he leaves all play aside, pores a whole night over a couple of verses, sweats, thinks, draws and burns his paper; and sometimes he rises to such daring that he passes a whole year over one ode! And, of course, he uses up all his intelligence upon it! And there you have a most solemn ode! I cannot say to what species it belongs, but it is very full,—some two hundred strophes! Judge for yourself how many fine verses there are in it! Besides, it is written according to the rules: at first you read the introduction, then the argument, and finally the conclusion,—precisely as the learned speak in the church! And yet, I must confess, there is no pleasure in reading it.
“Let me take, for example, the odes on victories, how that they conquered the Crimea, how the Swedes were drowned at sea: I find there all the details of a battle, where it happened, how, when,—in short, a report in verse! Very well!... I yawn! I throw it away, and open another, one written for a holiday, or something like it: here you discover things that a less clever mind would not have thought out within a lifetime: ‘Dawn’s rosy fingers,’ and ‘lily of paradise,’ and ‘Phœbus,’ and ‘heaven cleft open’! So vociferous, so loud! No, it does not please, nor move our hearts in the least.”
Thus an old man of our grandfathers’ times spoke yesterday to me in gentle simplicity. I, being myself a companion of those singers, the action of whose verse he so marvelled at, was much disturbed, nor knew how to answer him. But luckily, if at all that may be called luck to hear your own terrible sentence, a certain Aristarch began to speak to him.
“For this,” said he, “there are many causes; I will not promise to unveil one-half of them, but some I will gladly expound to you. I myself love the language of the gods, poetry, and just as you, am little edified with ours. In former days I have much conversed in Moscow with our Pindars, and have watched them well: the greater part of them are corporals of the body-guard, assessors, officers, scribes, or dust-covered guardians of monsters in the Museum of Antiquities,—all of them busy government officials; I have often noticed that they barely have time in two days or three to make a proper rhyme, their mind being all taken up with their affairs. No sooner has a lucky thought struck them, when, lo, the clock strikes six! The carriage is waiting: ’tis time for the theatre, and then to the ball, or to Lion,[171] and then ’tis night.... When are they to call on Apollo? In the morning, no sooner has he opened his eyes, than there is a note: ‘Rehearsal at five o’clock’.... Where? In fashionable society, where our lyric poet is to play the part of the harlequin. Is there any time left for odes? You have to learn our parts, then to Kroll,[172] then home again, to primp yourself and get dressed, then to the theatre, and good-bye another day. Besides, the ancients had one purpose, we another: Horace, for example, who nurtured his breast with ecstasy, what did he want? Not very much: in the æons immortality, and in Rome but a wreath of laurels or of myrtle, that Delia might say: ‘He is famous; through him I, too, am immortal!’ But the aim of many of us is a present of a ring, at times a hundred roubles, or friendship with a princelet who all his life has never read anything except now and then the Court almanac, or praises from their friends to whom each printed sheet appears to be sacred.
“Considering how different their views and ours are, it may safely be asserted, without offending those mettlesome gentlemen, the alumni of the Russian Muses, that they must have some especial taste, and different means, and a special manner in the composition of a lyrical poem; what they are I cannot tell you, but I shall announce to you—and, truly, I will not lie about it—what a certain poet thought of verses, of whose works the Mercury and the Observer[173] and the book stores and the stalls are full. ‘We are born into this world,’ he thought, ‘with rhymes; is it then not ridiculous for us poets to waste our time, like Demosthenes, at the sea-shore in a cabin, in doing nothing but reading and thinking, and relating what we have thought out only to the noisy waves? Nature makes the poet, and not study: he is without study learned when he becomes enthused, but science will always remain science, and not a gift; the only necessary equipments are boldness, rhymes and ardour.’
“And this is the way the natural poet wrote an ode: barely has the thunder of the cannon given the nation the pleasant news that the Rýmnikski Alcides[174] has vanquished the Poles, or that Férzen has taken their chief, Kosciuszko, captive, he immediately grabs the pen, and, behold, the word ‘ode’ is already on the paper.” Then follows in one strain: “‘On such a day and year!’ How now? ‘I sing!’ Oh no, that’s old! Were it not better: ‘Grant me, O Phœbus?’ Or, better still: ‘Not you alone are trod under heel, O turban-wearing horde!’ But what shall I rhyme with it but ‘snored,’ or ‘bored’? No, no! it will not do! I had better take a walk, and refresh myself with a whiff of air.”
He went, and thus he meditated on his walk: “The beginning never daunts the singers: you simply say what first occurs to you. The trouble only begins when you have to praise the hero. I know not with whom to compare him; with Rumyántsev, with Greyg or with Orlóv? What a pity I have not read the ancients! For it does not seem proper to compare to the moderns. Well, I’ll simply write: ‘Rejoice, hero, rejoice, O thou!’ That’s good! But what now? Ah, now comes the ecstasy! I’ll say: ‘Who has rent the veil of eternity for me! I see the gleam of lightning! From the upper world I hear, and so on.’ And then? Of course: ‘Many a year!’ Most excellent! I have caught the plan, and thoughts, and all! Hail to the poet! All I have to do now, is to sit down and write, and boldly print!” He hurries to his garret, scribbles, and the deed is done! And his ode is printed, and already they wrap shoeblacking in his ode. Thus has he Pindarised, and all his ilk who are scarcely capable to write a proper shop sign! “I wish Phœbus would tell them in their dream: ‘He who in Catherine’s loud age of glory cannot by his eulogy move the hearts of others, nor water his sweet lyre with tears, let him throw it away, break it and know he is not a poet!’”
FOOTNOTES:
END OF PART I.