FROM BOOK II
Reading edition
Psyche awoke from her sleep not sooner than midday past, nay, one hour after midday. All serving-maids came to dress the princess, and brought with them forty garments and all that with them went. For that day Psyche designated the simplest of all gowns, for she hastened as soon as possible to inspect the marvels of the palace. I shall follow in the princess’s track and shall present the mansion to you, and describe all in detail that could amuse her.
At first Psyche visited the rooms, nor left a corner in them where she did not pass a while; thence to the conservatory and to the balcony; thence on the veranda, and down, and out, to inspect the house from all sides. A bevy of girls were slow in following her; only the Zephyrs were fast enough, and they guarded her, lest running she should fall. Two or three times she inspected the house from within and from without. Meanwhile the Zephyrs and Cupids pointed out the architecture to her and all the marvels of nature, which Psyche was anxious to inspect. She wished to see all, but knew not where to begin, for her eyes were distracted now by one thing, now by another. Psyche would fain have looked at everything, but running around so much, she soon became fatigued.
While resting herself, she looked at the statues of famous masters: those were likenesses of inimitable beauties, whose names, in prose and verse, in various tales, both short and long, reign immortally among all the nations and through all the ages: Calisto, Daphne, Armene, Niobe, Helen, the Graces, Angelica, Phryne, and a multitude of other goddesses and mortal women appeared before her eyes in lifelike form, in all their beauty arrayed along the wall. But in the middle, and right in front of them, Psyche’s image stood on an elevated pedestal and surpassed them all in beauty. Looking at it, she herself fell to wondering, and, beside herself with wonderment, stopped: then you might have perceived another statue in her, such as the world had never seen.
Psyche would have stayed there a long time, looking at her image that held sway over her, if her servants who were with her had not pointed out in other places, for the pleasure of her eyes, other likenesses of her beauty and glory: up to her waist, her feet, her lifelike form, of gold, of silver, of bronze, of steel, her heads, and busts, and medals; and elsewhere mosaic, or marble, or agate represented in these forms a new splendour. In other places Apelles, or the god of artists who with his hand had moved Apelles’s brush, had pictured Psyche in all her beauty, such as no man could have imagined before.
But does she wish to see herself in pictures? Here, Zephyrs bring her Pomona’s horn and, strewing flowers before her, disport with her in vales; in another, she with mighty buckler in her hands, dressed as Pallas, threatens from her steed, with her fair looks more than with her spear, and vanquishes the hearts through a pleasant plague. There stands Saturn before her: toothless, baldheaded and grey, with new wrinkles on his old face, he tries to appear young: he curls his sparse tufts of hair, and, to see Psyche, puts on his glasses. There, again, she is seen like a queen, with Cupids all around her, in an aërial chariot: to celebrate fair Psyche’s honour and beauty, the Cupids in their flight shoot hearts; they fly in a large company, all carrying quivers over their shoulders, and, taking pride in her beautiful eyes, raise their crossbows and proclaim war to the whole world. There, again, fierce Mars, the destroyer of the law of peace, perceiving Psyche, becomes gentle of manner: he no longer stains the fields with blood, and finally, forgetting his rules of war, lies humbled at her feet and glows with love to her. There, again, she is pictured among the Pleasures that precede her everywhere and by the invention of varied games call forth a pleasant smile upon her face. In another place the Graces surround the princess and adorn her with various flowers, while Zephyr, gently wafting about her, paints her picture to adorn the world with; but, jealous of licentious glances, he curbs the minds of the lovers of licentiousness, or, perchance, shunning rebellious critics, hides in the painting the greater part of her beauties, though, as is well known, before Psyche those beauties of themselves appear in the pictures.
In order that various objects, meeting her eyes, should not weary her, her portraits alone were placed upon the wall, in simple and in festive gowns, or in masquerade attire. Psyche, you are beautiful in any attire: whether you be dressed as a queen, or whether you be seated by the tent as a shepherdess. In all garments you are the wonder of the world, in all you appear as a goddess, and but you alone are more beautiful than your portrait.
Gavriíl Románovich Derzhávin. (1743-1816.)
Derzhávin was born near Kazán, deriving his descent from a Tartar Murza, and passed his childhood in the east, in the Government of Orenbúrg. His early education was very scanty. In his fourteenth year his mother hastened with him to Moscow to enter him for future service as the son of a nobleman; but, her means being exhausted, she returned with him to Kazán, where she placed him in the newly opened Gymnasium. Even here the lack of good teachers precluded his getting any thorough instruction; his only positive gain was a smattering of German, which was to help him later in acquainting himself with the productions of the German Muse. In 1762 he entered the regiment of the Transfiguration (Preobrazhénski) as a common soldier. Whatever time he could call his own in the crowded and dingy barracks in which he passed eight years of his life he devoted to reading and to imitations of Russian and German verse. In 1772 he was made a commissioned officer, and was employed to quell the Pugachév rebellion.
It was only in 1779 that Derzhávin began to write in a more independent strain; one of the best odes of this new period is his Monody on the Death of Prince Meshchérski. But the one that gave him his greatest reputation was his Felítsa, with which began a new epoch in Russian poetry. Lomonósov, Sumarókov, Tredyakóvski, and a number of minor poets had flooded Russian literature with lifeless odes in the French pseudo-classic style, written for all possible occasions, and generally to order. Just as a reaction was setting in against them in the minds of the best people, Derzhávin proved by his Felítsa that an ode could possess other characteristics than those sanctioned by the French school. In 1782 he occupied a position in the Senate under the Procurator-General Vyázemski. He had an exalted opinion of Catherine, whom he had not yet met, and he spoke with full sincerity of her in his ode. The name Felítsa was suggested to him by the princess in her moral fable (see p. 276 et seq.). The chief interest in the ode for contemporary society lay in the bold attacks that Derzhávin made on the foibles of the dignitaries. Its literary value consists in the fact that it was the first attempt at a purely colloquial tone of playful banter, in a kind of poetic composition formerly characterised by a stilted language, replete with Church-Slavic words and biblical allusions. Numerous are the references made by the poets of the day to the Singer of Felítsa (see p. 358 et seq.); they all felt that Derzhávin had inaugurated a new era, that the period which had begun with Lomonósov’s Capture of Khotín was virtually over.
Catherine made Derzhávin Governor of Olónetsk, and later of Tambóv; but neither in these high offices, nor later, when Paul appointed him Chief of the Chancery of the Imperial Council, and Alexander I. made him Minister of Justice, was he successful. His excitable temperament, combined with a stern love of truth which brooked no compromise, made him everywhere impossible. Of the many productions which he wrote after Felítsa, none gained such wide popularity as his Ode to God. Though parts of it bear strong resemblance to similar odes by Klopstock, Haller, Brockes, and to passages in Young’s Night Thoughts, yet the whole is so far superior to any of them that it soon was translated into all European languages, and also into Japanese; there are not less than fifteen versions of it in French. Derzhávin lived to hear Púshkin recite one of his poems and to proclaim him his spiritual successor. The following translations of Derzhávin’s poems in English are known to me:
God, On the Death of Meshcherski, The Waterfall, The Lord and the Judge, On the Death of Count Orlov, Song (The Little Bee), in Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part I.; To a Neighbour, The Shipwreck, Fragment, ib., Part II.; To God, The Storm, in William D. Lewis’s The Bakchesarian Fountain, Philadelphia, 1849; The Stream of Time, in J. Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian; Drowning, by N. H. Dole; Ode to the Deity, by J. K. Stallybrass, in The Leisure Hour, London, 1870, May 2; Ode to God, by N. H. Dole, in The Chautauquan, vol. x; On the Death of Meshcherski, in C. E. Turner’s Studies in Russian Literature, and the same in Fraser’s Magazine, 1877.
ODE TO THE DEITY
O Thou infinite in being; Living ’midst the change of all; Thou eternal through time’s fleeing; Formless—Three-in-one withal! Spirit filling all creation, Who hast neither source nor station; Whom none reach, howe’er they plod; Who with Thine existence fillest, Claspest, mouldest as Thou willest, Keepest all; whom we call—God! Though the lofty mind could measure Deepest seas, and count the sand, Of the starry rays the treasure, Thou no number hast, no strand! Highest souls by Thee created, To Thy service consecrated, Ne’er could trace Thy counsels high; Soon as thought to Thee aspireth, In Thy greatness it expireth, Moment in eternity. Thou didst call the ancient chaos From eternity’s vast sea: On Thyself, ere time did ray us, Thou didst found eternity. By Thyself Thyself sustaining, From Thyself unaided shining, Thou art Light—light flows from Thee; By Thy words all things creating, Thy creation permeating, Thou wast, art and aye shalt be. All existence Thou containest In Thee, quick’nest with Thy breath; End to the beginning chainest; And Thou givest life through death. Life as sparks spring from the fire, Suns are born from Thee, great sire: As, in cold clear wintry day, Spangles of the frost shine, sparkling, Turning, wavering, glittering, darkling, Shine the stars beneath Thy ray. All the million lights, that wander Silent through immensity, Thy behests fulfil, and squander Living rays throughout the sky. But those lamps of living fire, Crystals soaring ever higher, Golden waves in rich array, Wondrous orbs of burning ether, Or bright worlds that cling together, Are to Thee as night to day. Like a drop in sea before Thee Is the firmament on high: What’s the universe of glory, And before Thee what am I? In yon vast aërial ocean Could I count those worlds in motion, Adding millions to them—aught I could fancy or decipher, By Thy side is but a cipher; And before Thee I am—naught! Naught! And yet in me Thou rayest, By Thy gift and through Thy Son: In me Thou Thyself portrayest, As in one small drop the sun. Naught! Yet life I feel throughout me, And, content with naught about me, Upward fly with eager heart. That Thou art, my soul supposes, Tries, and with this reas’ning closes: “Sure I am, hence Thou too art.” Yes, Thou art—all nature tells me; Whispers back my heart the thought; Reason now to this impels me: Since Thou art, I am not naught! Part of Thine entire creation, Set in nature’s middle station By Thine order I abide; Where Thou endest forms terrestrial And beginnest souls celestial, Chains of beings by me tied. I’m the link of worlds existing, Last high grade of matter I, Centre of all life subsisting, First touch of divinity. Death to dust my body sunders: In my mind I wield the thunders. I’m a king, a slave to Thee: I’m a worm, a god! Whence hither Came I, wonderful? Oh, whither? By myself I could not be. Thine am I, Thou great Creator, Outcome of Thy wisdom sole; Fount of life, blest conservator; Of my soul the king and soul! Needful to Thy just decreeing Was it that my deathless being Pass to Thee through death’s abyss: That my soul, in body vested, Wend, by death refined and tested, Father, to Thy deathlessness. Traceless One, unfathomable! Now I cannot see Thy face: My imagining’s too feeble E’en Thy shadow here to trace; But, if we must sing Thy glory, Feeble mortals, to adore Thee In a worthy attitude, We must rise to Thee to wreathe Thee, Lost in distance far beneath Thee, And—shed tears of gratitude.
—Translated by J. K. Stallybrass, in The Leisure Hour, London, 1870, May 2.
MONODY ON PRINCE MESHCHÉRSKI[147]
O iron tongue of Time, with thy sharp metallic tone, Thy terrible voice affrights me: Each beat of the clock summons me, Calls me and hurries me to the grave. Scarcely have I opened my eyes upon the world, Ere Death grinds his teeth, And with his scythe, that gleams like lightning, Cuts off my days, which are but grass. Not one of the horned beasts of the field, Not a single blade of grass escapes, Monarch and beggar alike are food for the worm. The noxious elements feed the grave, And Time effaces all human glory; As the swift waters rush towards the sea, So our days and years flow into Eternity, And empires are swallowed up by greedy Death. We crawl along the edge of the treacherous abyss, Into which we quickly fall headlong: With our first breath of life we inhale death, And are only born that we may die. Stars are shivered by him, And suns are momentarily quenched, Each world trembles at his menace, And Death unpityingly levels all. The mortal scarcely thinks that he can die, And idly dreams himself immortal, When Death comes to him as a thief, And in an instant robs him of his life. Alas! where fondly we fear the least, There will Death the sooner come; Nor does the lightning-bolt with swifter blast Topple down the towering pinnacle. Child of luxury, child of freshness and delight, Meshchérski, where hast thou hidden thyself? Thou hast left the realms of light, And withdrawn to the shores of the dead; Thy dust is here, but thy soul is no more with us. Where is it? It is there. Where is there? We know not. We can only weep and sob forth, Woe to us that we were ever born into the world! They who are radiant with health, Love and joy and peace, Feel their blood run cold And their souls to be fretted with woe. Where but now was spread a banquet, there stands a coffin: Where but now rose mad cries of revelry, There resounds the bitter wailing of mourners; And over all keeps Death his watch,— Watches us one and all,—the mighty Tsar Within whose hands are lodged the destinies of a world; Watches the sumptuous Dives, Who makes of gold and silver his idol-gods; Watches the fair beauty rejoicing in her charms; Watches the sage, proud of his intellect; Watches the strong man, confident in his strength; And, even as he watches, sharpens the blade of his scythe. O Death, thou essence of fear and trembling! O Man, thou strange mixture of grandeur and of nothingness! To-day a god, and to-morrow a patch of earth: To-day buoyed up with cheating hope, And to-morrow, where art thou, Man? Scarce an hour of triumph allowed thee Ere thou hast taken thy flight to the realms of Chaos, And thy whole course of life, a dream, is run. Like a dream, like some sweet vision, Already my youth has vanished quite. Beauty no longer enjoys her potent sway, Gladness no more, as once, entrances me, My mind is no longer free and fanciful, And all my happiness is changed. I am troubled with a longing for fame; I listen; the voice of fame now calls me. But even so will manhood pass away, And together with fame all my aspirations. The love of wealth will tarnish all, And each passion in its turn Will sway the soul and pass. Avaunt, happiness, that boasts to be within our grasp! All happiness is but evanescent and a lie: I stand at the gate of Eternity. To-day or to-morrow we must die, Perfílev, and all is ended. Why, then, lament or be afflicted That thy friend did not live for ever? Life is but a momentary loan from Heaven: Spend it then in resignation and in peace, And with a pure soul Learn to kiss the chastening rod.
—From C. E. Turner’s Studies in Russian Literature, and the same in Fraser’s Magazine, 1877.
FELÍTSA[148]
Godlike queen of the Kirgíz-Kaysák horde,[149] whose incomparable wisdom discovered the true path for the young Tsarévich Khlor, by which to climb the high mountain where grows the rose without prickles, where virtue dwells that captivates my soul and my mind! Oh, teach me how to find it!
Instruct me, Felítsa, how to live voluptuously, yet justly; how to tame the storm of passions, and be happy in the world. Your voice enthuses me, your son guides me, but I am weak to follow them. Disturbed by worldly cares, I control myself to-day, to-morrow am a slave of my caprices.
You do not emulate your Murzas,[150] and frequently go on foot; the simplest food is served at your table. You disdain your rest, and read and write by the tallow dip, and from your pen flows bliss to all the mortals.[151] Nor do you play cards, like me, from morning until morning.[152]
You do not care overmuch for masquerades, and do not set your foot into a club. You keep old customs and habits, and make no Don Quixote of yourself. You do not saddle the steed of Parnassus,[153] do not attend the séances, to see spirits,[154] do not go to the East[155] from your throne; but, walking on the path of humility, your gracious soul passes an even tenor of useful days.
But I sleep until noon, smoke tobacco and drink coffee. I change the work-days into holidays, and live in a whirl of chimerical thoughts: I now take booty from the Persians, now direct my arrows to the Turks; now, imagining myself to be the Sultan, I make the world tremble with my looks; or, suddenly attracted by a sumptuous garment, I hasten to the tailor for a new caftan.[156]
Or I am at a sumptuous feast, where they celebrate in my honour, where the table sparkles with its silver and gold, where there are a thousand different courses,—here the famous Westphalian bacon, there slices of Astrakhán fish, there stand the pilau and the cakes,—I drink champagne after my waffles and forget everything in the world ’midst wine, sweetmeats and perfumes.
Or, ’midst a beautiful grove, in an arbour, where the fountain plashes, by the sound of a sweet-voiced harp, where the zephyr scarcely breathes, where everything inclines to luxury, and entices the mind to joy, and the blood becomes now languid, now flows warm, inclining upon a velvet divan, I rouse the tender feelings of a young maiden, and inspire her heart with love.
Or, in a magnificent tandem, in a gilded English carriage, I drive with a dog, a fool, or friend, or fair maiden to the Swings, or stop at the taverns to drink mead; or, when I get tired of that, for I am inclined to change, fly, with my cap posed jauntily, on a mettled steed.
Or I delight my soul with music and singers, the organ and flute, or boxing and the dance.[157] Or, dropping all care of business, go on the chase, and take pleasure in the barking of the hounds[158]; or, on the banks of the Nevá, enjoy at night the sound of horns and the rowing of agile oarsmen.[159]
Or, staying at home, pass my time playing “Old Maid” with my wife; or we climb together into the dove-cot, or, at times, play Blindman’s Buff with her, or sváyka,[160] or have her examine my head; or I love to pore over books, to enlighten my mind and heart, that is, I read Pulicane and Bovo,[161] or yawn and fall asleep over the Bible.
Such are my debauches, Felítsa! But the whole world resembles me, no matter if one passes for a sage: every man is a living lie. We travel not by the paths of light, we run after the whims of pleasure. ’Twixt the Indolent and the Choleric,[162] ’twixt vanity and vice, one seldom finds the straight road to virtue.
Suppose we have found it! How are we weak mortals not to blunder, where even Reason stumbles and follows after passions, where learned ignoramuses bedim our heads as the mist bedims the wanderers? Temptation and flattery dwell everywhere, and luxury oppresses all the pashas. Where, then, dwells virtue? Where grows the rose without prickles?
It becomes you alone, O Empress, to create light from darkness, dividing chaos harmoniously in spheres, to firmly unite them by a common bond; you alone can bring forth concord out of discord, and happiness out of violent passions: thus the sailor, crossing the sea, catches the gale in his sails and safely guides his ship.
You alone hurt not, nor injure anyone; though you may connive at stupidity, you tolerate no mean act; you treat peccadillos with condescension. You do not choke people, as the wolf chokes the sheep, but you know their worth: they are subject to the will of kings, but more to righteous God who lives in their laws.
You judge soundly of merits, and mete out honour to the deserving: you deem him not a prophet who merely makes rhymes. And as for that entertainment of the mind,—the honour and glory of good caliphs, the lyric strain to which you condescend,—poetry is pleasing to you, acceptable, soothing, useful,—like a refreshing lemonade in summer.
Rumour tells of you that you are not in the least haughty, that you are pleasant in business and in jest, agreeable in friendship and firm; that you are indifferent to misfortune, and so magnanimous in glory that you refused to be called “Wise.”[163] Again, they justly say that one may always tell you the truth.
This, too, is an unheard-of thing and worthy of you alone: you permit the people boldly to know and think all,[164] openly or in secret; nor do you forbid them to say of you what is true or false; and you are always prone to forgive those crocodiles, the Zoiluses of all your benefactions.
Rivers of joyful tears stream from the depth of my heart. Oh, how happy the people must be there with their fate, where a meek, peaceful angel, clad in porphyry splendour, wields the heaven-sent sceptre! There one may whisper conversations and, without fearing punishment, at dinners not drink the health of kings.
There one may erase Felítsa’s name in the line, or carelessly drop her portrait on the ground. There they do not celebrate preposterous weddings, and steam people in ice baths, and pull the mustaches of dignitaries; princes do not cackle like sitting hens, nor favourites laugh loud at them and smear their faces with soot.
You know, O Felítsa, the rights of men and kings. While you enlighten the manners, you do not turn men into fools. In your moments of rest you write fables for instruction and teach the alphabet to Khlor: “Do no wrong, and you will cause the bitterest satirist to become a hated prevaricator.”
You are ashamed to be called great, lest you be feared and hated: it becomes only a wild she-bear to tear animals and suck their blood. Need one have recourse to the lancet, unless in extreme fever, when one can get along without it? And is it glorious to be a tyrant, a great Tamerlane in cruelty, where one is great in goodness, like God?
Felítsa’s glory is the glory of a god who has calmed strife, who has covered, dressed and fed the orphaned and the poor; whose radiant eye emits its light to fools, cowards, ungrateful people and the just, and enlightens alike all mortals, soothes, cures the sick,—does good for good’s sake;
Who has given the liberty to travel to other lands, has permitted his people to seek gold and silver; who makes the waters free, and does not prohibit cutting down the woods; who orders to weave, and spin, and sew; who, freeing the mind and the hands, orders to love commerce and the sciences, and to find happiness at home;
Whose law and hand distribute favours and justice. Announce, wise Felítsa, where is the villain separated from the honest man? Where does old age not go a-begging, and merit find its bread? Where does revenge not drive anyone? Where dwells conscience with truth? Where shine virtues?—if not at your throne?
But where does your throne shine in the world? Where do you flourish, celestial branch? In Bagdad, Smyrna, Cashmir? Listen: wherever you may live and my praises reach you, think not that I wish a hat or caftan for them. To feel the charm of goodness is for the soul a wealth such as even Crœsus did not possess.
I pray the great prophet that I may touch the dust of your feet, that I may enjoy the sweet stream of your words and your look. I entreat the heavenly powers that they extend their sapphire wings and invisibly guard you from all diseases, evils and ennui, that the renown of your deeds may shine in posterity like stars in the heavens.
FROM “THE WATERFALL”
Lo! like a glorious pile of diamonds bright, Built on the steadfast cliffs, the waterfall Pours forth its gems of pearl and silver light: They sink, they rise, and sparkling cover all With infinite refulgence; while its song, Sublime as thunder, rolls the woods along,— Rolls through the woods,—they send its accents back, Whose last vibration in the desert dies: Its radiance glances o’er the watery track, Till the soft wave, as wrapt in slumber, lies Beneath the forest shade; then sweetly flows A milky stream, all silent, as it goes. Its foam is scattered on the margent bound, Skirting the darksome grove. But list! the hum Of industry, the rattling hammer’s sound, Files whizzing, creaking sluices, echoed come On the fast-travelling breeze! Oh no, no voice Is heard around but thy majestic noise! When the mad storm-wind tears the oak asunder, In thee its shivered fragments find their tomb; When rocks are riven by the bolt of thunder, As sands they sink into thy mighty womb: The ice that would imprison thy proud tide Like bits of broken glass is scattered wide. The fierce wolf prowls around thee—there it stands Listening,—not fearful, for he nothing fears: His red eyes burn like fury-kindled brands, Like bristles o’er him his coarse fur he rears; Howling, thy dreadful roar he oft repeats, And, more ferocious, hastes to bloodier feats. The wild stag hears thy falling waters’ sound, And tremblingly flies forward,—o’er her back She bends her stately horns, the noiseless ground Her hurried feet impress not, and her track Is lost among the tumult of the breeze, And the leaves falling from the rustling trees. The wild horse thee approaches in his turn: He changes not his proudly rapid stride; His mane stands up erect, his nostrils burn, He snorts, he pricks his ears, and starts aside; Then rushing madly forward to thy steep, He dashes down into thy torrents deep.
—From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part I.
THE STORM
As my bark in the restless ocean Mounts its rough and foaming hills, Whilst its waves in dark commotion Pass me, hope my bosom fills. Who, when warring clouds are gleaming, Quenches the destructive spark? Say what hand, what safety’s beaming, Guides through rocks my little bark? Thou, Creator, all o’erseeing, In this scene preserv’st me dread! Thou, without whose word decreeing Not a hair falls from my head! Thou in life hast doubly blest me, All my soul to Thee’s revealed,— Thou amongst the great hast placed me,— Be ’midst them my guide and shield!
—From W. D. Lewis’s The Bakchesarian Fountain.
THE STREAM OF TIME[165]
The stream of time, with onward sweep, Bears off men’s works, all human things, And plunges o’er Oblivion’s steep Peoples and kingdoms with their kings. If for a space amidst the swirl The lyre of trumpet some sustain, They’re swept at last in ceaseless whirl, And none escape Fate’s common main.
—From John Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian.
FOOTNOTES:
Yúri Aleksándrovich Neledínski-Melétski. (1752-1829.)
After finishing his education in the University of Strassburg, Neledínski occupied various posts in the army and with legations. In 1800 he was made a Senator. He distinguished himself in literature by his simple, deep-felt songs, two of which, given below, have become enormously popular. His other poems and translations from French authors are now forgotten.
Sir John Bowring has translated his “Under the oak-tree, near the rill,” “To the streamlet I’ll repair,” and “He whom misery, dark and dreary”; the latter is the same as Lewis’s “He whose soul from sorrow dreary.”
SONG
To the streamlet I’ll repair, Look upon its flight and say: “Bear, O fleeting streamlet, bear All my griefs with thine away!” Ah, I breathe the wish in vain! In this silent solitude Counted is each throb of pain:— Rest is melancholy’s food. Waves with waves unceasing blend, Hurrying to their destiny: E’en so thoughts with thoughts, and tend All alike to misery. And what grief so dark, so deep As the grief interred within, By the friend, for whom I weep, All unnoticed, all unseen? Yet, could I subdue my pain, Soothe affection’s rankling smart, Ne’er would I resume again The lost empire of my heart. Thou, my love, art sovereign there! There thou hast a living shrine: Let my portion be despair, If the light of bliss be thine. Loved by thee, oh, might I live, ’Neath the darkest, stormiest sky: ’Twere a blest alternative! Grief is joy, if thou be nigh. Every wish and every pray’r Is a tribute paid to thee: Every heart-beat—there, oh there, Thou hast mightiest sovereignty. To thee, nameless one! to thee Still my thoughts, my passions turn; ’Tis through thee alone I see, Think, and feel, and breathe, and burn. If the woe in which I live Ever reach thy generous ear, Pity not, but oh, forgive Thy devoted worshipper! In some hour of careless bliss Deign my bosom’s fire to prove; Prove it with an icy kiss,— Thou shalt know how much I love!
—From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part I.
STANZAS
He whose soul from sorrow dreary, Weak and wretched, naught can save, Who in sadness, sick and weary, Hopes no refuge but the grave; On his visage Pleasure beaming Ne’er shall shed her placid ray, Till kind fate, from woe redeeming, Leads him to his latest day. Thou this life preservest ever, My distress and my delight! And, though soul and body sever, Still I’ll live a spirit bright; In my breast the heart that’s kindled Death’s dread strength can ne’er destroy, Sure the soul with thine that’s mingled Must immortal life enjoy. That inspired by breath from heaven Need not shrink a mortal doom, To thee shall my vows be given In this world and that to come. My fond shade shall constant trace thee, And attend in friendly guise, Still surround thee, still embrace thee, Catch thy thoughts, thy looks, thy sighs. To divine its secret pondering, Close to clasp thy soul ’t will brave, And if chance shall find thee wandering Heedless near my silent grave, E’en my ashes then shall tremble, Thy approach relume their fire, And that stone in dust shall crumble, Covering what can ne’er expire!
—From W. D. Lewis’s The Bakchesarian Fountain.
FOOTNOTES:
Mikhaíl Nikítich Muravév. (1757-1807.)
Muravév was an alumnus of the Moscow University, and early distinguished himself for his intimate knowledge of the ancient and many modern languages. In 1785 he became the instructor of Alexander and Constantine, and when the first ascended the throne, Muravév was made Senator, and later Curator of the Moscow University. He not only did much for the cause of education in Russia, but himself educated a new generation of writers, among them Bátyushkov; through his efforts Karamzín was made historiographer, and the Archives were opened to him. In his prose and poetry, Muravév was himself a follower of the pseudo-classic school, with an addition of sentimentalism, through Karamzín’s influence. In his classicism, however, he differs from all his contemporaries in that he drew directly from the ancient sources, with which he was intimately acquainted.
Sir John Bowring translated Muravév’s To the Goddess of the Neva, Boleslav, and “She bent her head, and her tears that fell.”
TO THE GODDESS OF THE NEVÁ
Glide, majestic Neva! Glide thee, Decked with bright and peaceful smiles; Palaces are raised beside thee, ’Midst the shadows of the isles. Stormy Russian seas thou bindest With the ocean—by the grave Of our glorious Tsar thou windest, Which thy graceful waters lave. And the middle-ocean’s surges All thy smiling naiads court; While thy stream to Paros urges, And to Lemnos’ classic port. Hellas’ streams, their glory shaded, See the brightest memories fade; Glassy mirrors—how degraded! Dimmed by Kislar Aga’s shade. While thy happier face is bearing Ever-smiling images, On thy busy banks appearing Crowds in gaiety and peace. Thames’ and Tagus’ gathering prizes, Spread their riches o’er thy breast, While thy well-known banner rises, Rises proudly o’er the rest. In thy baths what beauties bathe them, Goddesses of love and light; There Erota loves to swathe them In the brightest robes of night. Cool thy smiling banks at even, Cool thy grottoes and thy cells, Where, by gentle breezes driven, Oft the dancing billow swells. Then thou gatherest vapours round thee, Veil’st thee in thy twilight dress; Love and mirth have now unbound thee— Yield thee to thy waywardness. Thou dost bear the dying over, Weary of this earthly dream; And with awful mists dost cover All the bosom of the stream. With thy car thou troublest never The calm silence of the deep; Sirens dance around thee ever, Laughing o’er thy quiet sleep. Peaceful goddess! Oft the singer Sees thee in his ecstasy, On the rock he loves to linger, Sleepless,—then he meets with thee.
—From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part II.
Vasíli Vasílevich Kapníst. (1757-1824.)
Kapníst, the son of a brigadier, entered the army as a corporal in 1771, and was made a commissioned officer in 1775, but he soon retired to his native village of Obúkhovka in the Government of Kíev, which he later described in the manner of Horace. He was elected a Representative of the Nobility of his district, later (upon his return to St. Petersburg), became a member of the Academy, and rose to many other honours. He early distinguished himself by translations and imitations of Horace, in which he devoted a closer attention to perfect form than any of his contemporaries, so that, but for a somewhat antiquated language, he is read with pleasure even at the present time. His chief reputation with his contemporaries was earned by the comedy The Pettifoggery, which had a phenomenal success, and was only superseded by Griboyédov’s Intelligence Comes to Grief and Gógol’s The Revizór. Like all the great comedies of Russia, The Pettifoggery deals with the negative sides of social life, and lays bare the corruption of officialdom. The plot of the play is as follows: Pettifog devises a plan by which he is to get hold of the property of Squareman. The latter is named in his certificate of birth Theodotos; his father left his estate to this Theodotos, but he naming himself Deodatus (Bogdán), Pettifog argues before the judges that Deodatus is another unlawful holder of that estate, and that it ought to revert to himself, as a distant relative of the deceased man. To make his case sure he bribes the judges, Gurgle, Snare, Gladly and Wordy, and the Procurator Grab and Secretary Talon, and sues for the hand of Sophia, the daughter of the Presiding Judge Casetwister. All, however, ends well, for Pettifog is denounced to the Senate and put in gaol, and the judges are turned over to the criminal court, while Squareman marries Sophia, his old sweetheart. The verses at the end of Act III., Scene 6, “Take, you’ll learn the art with ease,” went like wild-fire through all Russia, and became the byword for the large host of bribers.
Sir John Bowring has translated his On Julia’s Death, also reprinted in F. R. Grahame’s The Progress of Science, Art and Literature in Russia.