THE NINETEENTH CENTURY (continued 2)
Reading edition
—From C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics.
Prince Petr Andréevich Vyázemski. (1792-1878.)
Prince Vyázemski was one of the very few literary men in Russia whose career began before that of Púshkin and who were still active at a time when Tolstóy and Dostoévski had established their reputations. His father, dying, left him in charge of Karamzín, to whom he was related by marriage. Through him, Prince Vyázemski was early brought in contact with the literary circle, meeting there on a friendly footing Zhukóvski, Bátyushkov, and Púshkin. He took part in the campaign of 1812, and at Borodinó two horses were shot under him. He later occupied various posts, and was made Associate Minister of Public Instruction and a Senator in 1855. His literary works have lately been collected in twelve large volumes, and yet, in spite of his great talent as a satirist, critic, and lyricist, he has fallen into oblivion. The cause of this is that he persevered in the pseudo-classic, sentimental attitude of the school of Karamzín, while the Romantic spirit of Púshkin’s time touched him but lightly, and the realism of the period after the forties entrenched him only more in his old habits and confirmed him in his hostility to everything that departed from the code of Karamzín.
Sir John Bowring gives in Part II. of the Specimens of the Russian Poets translations of his To My Three Absent Friends, To N. N., and Fragment; John Pollen, in the Rhymes from the Russian, has translated his Troika. An epigram of his is given by V. E. Marsden in The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 9.
THE SAMOVÁR
’T is pleasant, having strayed abroad, to find a familiar picture of native customs, homelike bread-and-salt, a hospitable roof, a retreat, a sacred retreat of your country’s Lares for the soul that is crusted by the ice in the chill sea of the world, where to a native question there is no native answer; where life is but an empty exchange of ceremonial words; where you are only a stranger and only Monsieur N. ’T is pleasant to warm yourself in a quiet haven and with confidence to look into friends’ faces, eagerly to listen to the discourse in which there is something familiar to the soul and a message from bygone days.
A wanderer’s days are like unto displaced pages: a teasing, malicious spirit disrupts them,—there is no connection: each day you live anew, yet life is only good through traditions of love, oneness of beliefs and feelings, concord of impressions, and a gentle antiqueness of customary relations. Our mind is cosmopolitan, but our heart home-bound: the mind pleases itself in ever treading new paths, and has all its joys in the future; but the heart grows young with old dreams, the heart lives on old habits and blooms more gladly in the shadow of the past. Oh, be blessed, roof of light and refuge, where, like a relative, the guest of the moment has been received, where carelessly he could unfold his heart, and for a time deceive his orphanhood! Where consciously and sympathetically he partook of the dear family’s harmony and happiness, and saw the young joys of the parents’ souls blooming in a cloudless calm⸺.
But we are drawn even by another mysterious power to that familiar retreat where, with usual kindness, the loving family waits for us at the table. I love that hour,—almost the best of the day,—a poetic hour ’midst the prose of rude days, a sincere hour of life, a joyous interval ’twixt the labour of the day and the deep sleep of the night. All accounts are cast,—in the balance we live: there are no cares of life, nay, have not been; to-day has vanished from your shoulders, to-morrow is not yet. Hour of friendly discourse at the tea table! Honour and praise to the young hostess! Right Orthodoxly, not in German fashion, not thin like water or childish drink, but redolent with Russia, juicy and thick, the fragrant tea flows in an amber stream.
Very well! But I find one thing lacking: no, the stamp of Russian life is not complete! Where is the native samovár, our family’s hearth, our family altar, ark of domestic joys? In it boil, from it flow, the traditions of all our days; in it live the recollections of Russian antiquity; it alone has survived from the torso of former years,—the inextinguishable grandfather has passed to the grandchildren. It is the Russian rococo, formless, awkward, but inwardly good, though unsightly from without; it preserves better the heat, and while it croons, the discourse boils like its steaming liquid.
How many secret chapters of daily romances, life-stirring, heartfelt romances that are not in books,—let one write as sweetly as one may,—how many pure dreams of maidens’ souls and gentle quarrels of love, and gentle peace-making, and quiet joys, and softly riotous joys have stealthily taken fire in its flame and have invisibly been carried in its cloud of steam! Wherever there are domestic Penates, from gilded palaces to humble huts, wherever there is the brass samovár, an inheritance of the orphan, the widow’s last wealth, and luxury of poverty,—everywhere in holy and Orthodox Russia it is the chief participator at family reunions. One cannot be born into the world, nor enter into matrimony, nor will friends say “welcome” or “good-bye,” but that, the end and beginning of all everyday affairs, the boiling samovár, the domestic leader of the choir, raises its voice and calls the family together.
The poet has said, and his verse we understand: “Our country’s smoke is sweet and pleasant to us!” Was not our great poet—there can be no doubt about it—then inspired by the samovár? Derzhávin’s shades, following me, turn to you with the earnest request, to his honour and the honour of the Orthodox country, to throw away the teapot and introduce the samovár.
TO MY THREE ABSENT FRIENDS
My brothers! whither scattered now? What fate, what cruel fate could sever Hands, souls, fast-bound, divided never? But ye are fled, and fled for ever, And I am left alone with woe! The sigh I heave in silence here, The careless zephyr bears away; ’T is lost in twilight’s darkening ray, ’T is veiled in night,—it fades in day,— It ne’er will reach your listening ear. Perchance e’en now, while round me roll Dark storms and misty clouds, e’en now, Pain’s icy sweat upon his brow, One calls upon his friend, and oh! Death’s wintry curtain wraps his soul. Then sleep in peace, thou spirit blest! My spirit seems to cling to thee; From sorrow to felicity Wafted, thy bark has passed the sea Of storms, in joy’s calm port to rest. How long shall absence’ misery last? When, when shall dawn the hour of meeting? Shall ne’er again the blessed greeting Of social bliss return?—How fleeting Its rapture,—’t is for ever past! Cold, cold,—I feel my heart; delight Can kindle ne’er its fire again; My tears flow forth, they flow in vain; My smiles,—no light those smiles retain; For what awaked it sinks in night. Time was, how blessèd to recall That time, when our hands garlanded The fairest wreaths of roses red, And in youth’s spring the chorus led To heaven, the source, the end of all. Time was, but like a dream it fled! The hymn,—’t is now a funeral dirge; The garland,—’t is affliction’s scourge; The dance,—its memories now emerge Like ghosts that wander midst the dead. And now the plaint ascends! Appear, Appear, delightful hours, anew! Spirit of youth, so fond, so true, Awake! Suns, once so bright, so few, Shine,—let illusion’s mockery cheer! But see! the darkness creeps away,— The clouds disperse, the storm is gone,— Thy smile returns not, blessèd one! The mountains see the morning dawn, To me, alas! there dawns no day.
—From Sir John Bowring’s Specimens of the Russian Poets, Part II.
DEATH REAPS THE HARVEST OF LIFE
Death reaps the harvest of life, and every day and every hour asks for a new prey of life, and sternly tears us asunder.
How many fair names he has already snatched away from the living, and how many voiceless lyres hang on young cypresses!
How many companions are no more, how many younger ones have passed, whose morning dawned when the sultry midday burnt us!
But we have remained, have survived that fateful carnage; but we are impoverished after the death of our near ones, and no longer strive for life as for a conflict.
Sadly finishing our days, we are waiting for the belated relief,—slowly dying from day to day, until we shall be no more.
Sons of another generation, we are a last year’s flower in the new: the impressions of the living are foreign to us, and they have no sympathy for ours.
They care not for that which we love, and their passions do not agitate us! They were not there where we have been, and not for us is where they shall be!
Our world is an empty fane to them, our past is but a myth, and that which for us are hallowed ashes, to them is but mute dust.
Yes! We are like ruins, and we stand on the crossroad of the living, like mortuary monuments amidst the habitations of men!
Kondráti Fédorovich Rylyéev. (1796-1826.)
Rylyéev was at the early age of six inscribed by his mother in the Cadet Corps, in order to remove him from the influence of his brutal father. In 1814 he graduated as lieutenant, and took part in the expedition that entered Paris. Upon his return, he was stationed in the Governments of Minsk and Vorónezh; he later settled in St. Petersburg, where he distinguished himself for his official integrity as member of the Criminal Court and as Manager of the Russo-American Company. He began to write verses as a boy, and his ardent republicanism, coupled with a not less fervent patriotism, led him to an idealisation of ancient Russian heroes. He did this in the prevailing Romantic spirit, being urged on in his endeavours by his mentor and friend, Púshkin. Of his historical ballads the best are Iván Susánin and Voynaróvski; they all created an outburst of patriotic enthusiasm upon their appearance. Of his other poems the most perfect are The Citizen and Civil Valour. Rylyéev took an active part in the plot of the Decembrists, was at once arrested, and later publicly executed. His poems were prohibited in Russia until a comparatively recent time.
An extract from Voynaróvski was translated in the Foreign Quarterly Review, vol. ix., 1832; a large number of his poems, containing the whole of Voynaróvski, are given in The Poems of K. F. Relaieff, translated from the Russian by T. Hart-Davies, London (new and enlarged edition, 1887); C. T. Wilson has translated in Russian Lyrics his Iván Susánin, Svyatopólk, and Prayer Before Death. In Free Russia, vol. xii., No. 2, The Citizen is translated by Elizabeth Gibson.
FROM “VOYNARÓVSKI”
But whose that wandering form that ’s seen Athwart the morning fog to creep From out yon hut, and on the steep Beneath which Lena’s waters sweep Pace with slow step and ’wildered mien? His arquebus slung at his back, His short caftan, and cap of black, Seem to denote him a Cossack From Dnieper’s shores. Stern is his face, And full of grief, for cankering thought Hath furrowed deep that brow, and wrought The stamp of age on manhood’s grace. See! to the west his hands extending, Wild lustre breaking from his eyes, Homeward his thoughts and wishes sending, He thus exclaims with tearless sigh: “Ye distant fields, that saw my birth, My death you may not view! Tombs of my sires! The exile’s bones Will never rest in you! In vain the flame of life yet burns,— It never more may shine; In vain my soul the dastard spurns,— The dastard’s lot is mine.” Who is that exile? None may tell: Months, years have passed since first he came To this his far abode of shame, Here shunned, and shunning all, to dwell. Ne’er hath a smile been seen to play Across that face blanched by despair; And woe, not age, hath tinged with grey His unkempt beard and matted hair. Yet, not a felon deed hath sent That stranger hither; nor hath brent The glowing iron his scarred face, And charactered a slave’s disgrace; Though ne’er did branded felon show Such withered look, so wild a brow. Calmness is there, but ’t is the calm Of Baykal, ere the tempest rise To lash its waters to the skies, Spreading around dismay, alarm; And, as athwart the midnight gloom Flickers the lamp beside the tomb, So gleam with ghastly glare his eyes. Wandering alone o’er crag, through dell, He roams each day, and none may dare To ask his name, his grief, his care: His frown forbids, that frown ’s a spell. “List, stranger, and with wonder learn How Fate, unpitying, wayward, stern, Delights us mortals to oppress. Beneath this garb uncouth, this dress So coarse, a slave it scarce befits, Thus abject here beside thee sits Mazeppa’s kinsman, friend, and heir.”
—From Foreign Quarterly Review, 1832.
IVÁN SUSÁNIN
“Where lead’st thou our footsteps? Here naught can be seen,” Thus shouted the foe to the brave Susanin, “We sink in the snow-heaps, we stick on the road, We ne’er shall arrive at thy sheltering abode; ’T is on purpose thou stray’st from the path, but in vain, From tricks like this Michael no safety will gain. “Though snow-storm may rage, though we wander afar, Yet death at the Poles’ hands shall come on thy Tsar; So lead on, or tremble! and shorten our pain,— All night with the tempest contending amain, Through snow-storms and cold thou hast made us to go,— But what dark spot is that in the valley below?” “’T is the hamlet,” the peasant replied, “see, there stand The corn-yards, the bridge, and the pales round the land! With me, on to the door, for the cottage hath been Long time ready warmed to receive guests within, So onward, and fear not!” “Well, well I must say Thou hast led us, my friend, a most cursed long way. “A night more infernal I never have seen, With snow stuck together my eyelids have been; My coat, pah! you wring it, there ’s not a thread dry.” Thus grumbled the Pole, and went in with the cry Of, “Wine, wine! we are cold, we are wet through and through, Or we ’ll take what our broadswords can wring out of you.” And now on the board the rough napkin was spread With beer and with wine-jugs, and each had his bread Before him, and soup made of cabbage was there And Russian wheat-gruel, a right welcome fare. Without the cold wind at the casemates was spurning, Within the dim spluttering torches were burning. Now midnight had passed, in tranquillity deep On the benches the Poles lay unheeding asleep, In the house filled with smoke no one stirring was seen, Save as sentinel standing the grey Susanin, In the corner he stood near the ikon, and there For the young Tsar’s protection he murmured a prayer. The silence the tramp of a horse’s hoofs stirred. Then stole Susanin to the doorway, and heard, “Is it thou, father dear? to find thee I am here. Where goest thou? Rough is the journey and drear, ’T is past midnight, no lull in the tempest hath come, Sure thou bringest distress to the hearts of thy home.” “It was God’s will thy steps to this village to guide, And now haste to the young Tsar,” the father replied, “And tell him, tell Michael, to flee and not wait, For the murderous Poles in their pride and their hate In secret to murder young Michael intend, And so doth a fresh woe o’er Moscow impend. “Tell him that I, loving my faith and my land, Will rescue the Tsar from the enemy’s hand; Tell him that his safety lies only in flight, That e’en now the assassins are with me this night.” “O my father, what say’st thou?—a moment refrain,” Said the youth, “if thou die, what to me will remain? “Who then my young sister, my mother will guard?” “The holy Creator will take them in ward,” Said brave Susanin, “and they never will fall, For assistance and shelter He giveth to all Who are orphans; so hasten, ’t is time now to go, ’T is for Russia, remember, I lay my life low.” With a sob the youth mounted, and swiftly did go, Like a whistling arrow just loosed from the bow. Through the clouds the moon shone, the wild snow-storm was o’er, All hushed were the winds and the tempest’s loud roar, In the east the dim dawn ’gan to glimmer afar, And the Poles woke from slumber, those foes of the Tsar. “Susanin,” they cried, “cease thy prayers to thy God, It is time for the start, we should be on the road!” So leaving the village in shouting array, Through the forest they followed a winding pathway. Susanin led them on; and now up rose the light, And the sun through the branches began to gleam bright. Soon his rays were obscured, then again brightly shone, Then with dim light he glimmered, and vanished anon. Scarce a rustle was heard from the beech or the oak, Scarce a sound ’neath the feet from the frost-bound snow broke, Scarce a crow rose in flight with a flutter and cry, And the woodpecker pecked at the willow-tree dry. In silence the Poles marched on singly in file, Still farther their grey-haired guide led them the while; Now high in the heavens the mid-day sun stood, But darker and drearer grew the thick wood, Till sudden before them the pathway was lost, And a hedge of fir-branches thick plaited and crossed With pine-boughs right down to the ground interlaced, On the road like some rough wall before them was placed; In vain did the scouts bend a listening ear, All was desert and dead, not a sound could they hear. “Whither now hast thou led us?” the wearied Poles cried. “To the place that was needed,” the peasant replied; “So slay me, a martyr, for here is my tomb, But know that I save the young Tsar from his doom; Ye thought ye had found a base traitor in me, But no Russ is a traitor, nor ever shall be! Here each loves his country from youth’s early day, And his fatherland vilely can never betray.” “Wretch!” yelled the fierce Poles with a wild fury torn, “Thou shalt die ’neath our sabres.” “Your anger I scorn, For the true Russian heart with content and with trust Ever joyfully dies in the cause which is just, Fear of death or of doom from my spirit is far, All untrembling I die for my country and Tsar.” “Die then!” to the hero the angry foe screamed, O’er his grey head the broadswords keen-whistling gleamed, “Perish, traitorous villain, thy life’s end is near!” Susanin wounded fell without shrinking or fear, By his purer blood’s red stream the pure snow was laved— ’T was that life-blood which Michael for Russia had saved.
—From T. Hart-Davies’s The Poems of K. F. Relaieff.
Aleksándr Sergyéevich Griboyédov. (1795-1829.)
The famous author of the drama Intelligence Comes to Grief was the son of wealthy and cultivated parents, who gave him a brilliant education. At the age of fifteen he spoke several languages fluently, and entered the university, from which he graduated two years later with the degree of Bachelor of Laws. He immediately joined the army, but did not take part in the foreign campaigns as his regiment was kept back for home duty. During his leisure hours he translated and remodelled several French dramas, without displaying any especial talent for dramatic work. In 1818 he was appointed secretary of the Russian legation in Persia, and in recognition of his important services was highly decorated by both the Russian and the Persian governments. During his wearisome sojourn in Asia he laid the foundation for his drama Intelligence Comes to Grief, and he finished it in Moscow in 1823. He went with it to St. Petersburg to stage it, but the censor would not permit even its publication. In the meanwhile the drama became known throughout Russia in hundreds of manuscript copies, and it created a sensation unlike any previous work of literature. In portraying both the servility and corruption of the older temporising generation, and the carping criticism and would-be liberalism of the younger set, who in their endeavour to imitate the West sinned against the national character, Griboyédov incurred the animosities of all the camps; but by unanimous consent Intelligence Comes to Grief is the greatest national drama of Russia. Since its first appearance on the stage in 1831, and its first publication in 1833, it has had some fifty editions, and is still on the repertoire of Russian theatres. In 1828 Griboyédov was sent again to Persia, this time in the capacity of minister, but he was killed soon after his arrival in Teheran by an infuriated mob.
Intelligence Comes to Grief was translated into English under its Russian title, Gore ot Ouma, from the Russian of Griboiedoff, by N. Benardaky, London, Edinburgh, 1857. In The Anglo-Russian Literary Society, No. 15, is translated his David, by F. P. Marchant.
FROM “INTELLIGENCE COMES TO GRIEF”
ACT II, SCENE 1. FÁMUSOV AND SERVANT
Fámusov. Petrúshka, your caftan is eternally patched up or torn at the elbow! Fetch down the almanac. Look there; don’t read like a sexton, but with feeling, with understanding, with rests. Hold on! Write down on the memorandum, against next week: “I ’m invited to Praskóvya Fédorovna on Tuesday for trout.” How wonderful this world is made! Your brain is in a whirl when you philosophise about it! Now you take care of yourself, and now it is a dinner; you eat three hours, and it will not be digested in three days. Oh, make a note for the same day—no, no! “For Thursday I am called to a funeral.” O human race! It has slipped my mind that we all shall have to get into that box where one can neither stand up nor sit. Here is an example of a praiseworthy life: the defunct was an honourable chamberlain, he held a key, and has managed to obtain a key for his son; he was rich, and married to a rich woman; he married off his children and grandchildren; he has passed away, and all mention him with regret: “Maksím Petróvich, peace to his ashes!” Write down, on Thursday, while you are about it, or may be, on Friday, or Saturday: “I am to be godfather at the doctor’s widow.” The child is not yet born, but, if my calculation is right, will be.
SCENE 2. FÁMUSOV, SERVANT, AND CHÁTSKI
Fámusov. Ah, Aleksándr Andréich, come nearer, take a seat!
Chátski. You are busy?
Fámusov (to the servant). Go! (Servant exit.) Yes, I have been entering various memoranda on business matters, not to forget them by any chance.
Chátski. You look disconcerted. Tell me, why? Is my arrival untimely? Has, perchance, some sorrow come to Sophia Pávlovna? There is disquiet in your face and movements.
Fámusov. What a riddle you have propounded, my friend! Not joyful! You would not expect me, at my age, to dance a jig.
Chátski. Nobody asks you to. I just asked two words about Sophia Pávlovna, fearing that she might be ill.
Fámusov. Pshaw, the Lord spare us! Five thousand times he repeats one and the same thing: now it is, there is no one fairer in the world than Sophia Pávlovna, now, Sophia Pávlovna is ill. Tell me, have you taken a liking to her? You have raced through the whole world,—don’t you want to get married?
Chátski. What is that to you?
Fámusov. It would not be bad to ask of me: I am, so to say, a near relative of hers; at least, they have not in vain been calling me her father.
Chátski. Suppose I should sue for her hand, what would you say?
Fámusov. I should say: First, do not make a fool of yourself, do not, my friend, neglect your estate; but above all, take a government position.
Chátski. I should gladly serve, but I hate to be subservient.
Fámusov. That ’s it! You are all a haughty lot! Ask how your fathers have done! Learn from your elders. Let us take, for example, my deceased uncle, Maksím Petróvich: he used to dine not upon silver, but upon gold; a hundred servants were at his beck; he was all covered with decorations; he travelled all the time in a procession, was all the time at Court, and at what Court! It was not then as now: he served under Empress Catherine! In those days there was some weight in dignity: bow all you please to them, they would not nod their heads. A dignitary was not an ordinary mortal: he drank and ate quite differently. And my uncle,—what is your prince, your count? He had such a serious look, such haughty mien,—but when it was necessary to be subservient, he knew how to limber up his joints. Once he by chance made a misstep during audience at Court: he fell, and almost hurt his occiput. The old man groaned,—his hoarse voice provoked her Majesty’s smile, she deigned to laugh. What did he do? He rose, arranged his clothes, wanted to make a bow, and fell down again, but this time on purpose. The laughter was louder than before,—he repeated his feat. Well, how is that according to your ideas? According to ours, he was shrewd: he fell down in pain, he rose quite well. Who was oftenest invited to whist? Who heard a kind word at Court? Maksím Petróvich! Who was honoured above all others at Court? Maksím Petróvich! That ’s no trifle! Who conferred ranks, and gave pensions? Maksím Petróvich! Ah, you of to-day are what?
Chátski. Truly, the world has grown more stupid—you may say so with a sigh! When we compare the present age with the one that ’s past, though the tradition is living, it is hard to believe: he was most famous whose neck was oftenest bent, and the brow took by assault in peace, not war; they mercilessly knocked their brows against the floor. He who needed it, took delight in grovelling in the dust; those who stood higher wove flattery like lace,—it was a sincere age of submission and terror! Under the mask of zeal for the Tsar—(I am not talking of your uncle: we will not disturb his ashes). But now, who would, even in the most ardent servility, undertake to amuse the people, and boldly to sacrifice his occiput? Though then, many an equal of his, or some old man who was falling to pieces in his ancient hide, seeing his capers, probably remarked: “Oh, if I could do the same!” There are even now some servile souls, but nowadays ridicule terrifies them and shame holds them in check. Kings, with good reason, are slow to favour them.
Fámusov. My God, he is a carbonaro!
Chátski. No, this is a different world!
Fámusov. Dangerous man!
Chátski. Everybody breathes more freely, and nobody hastens to inscribe himself in the army of fools.
Fámusov. How he talks! And he talks as he writes.
Chátski. To yawn at the ceiling in the house of your patrons, to make your appearance and sit in silence, to courtesy, dine, fetch a chair, lift up a handkerchief—
Fámusov. He wants to preach liberty!
Chátski. Who travels, who lives in the village—
Fámusov. He does not acknowledge the authorities!
Chátski. Who serves his office and not men—
Fámusov. I should most severely forbid such gentlemen to get within a gunshot of the capitals!
Chátski. I will not give you any rest!
Fámusov. My patience is all exhausted, I have had enough!
Chátski. I have unmercifully scolded your age; I leave it to you to reject part of it in favour of our times: I shall not contradict.
Fámusov. I do not wish to know you! I despise debauch!
Chátski. I have had my say.
Fámusov. Very well, I close my ears!
Chátski. What for? I shall not insult them.
Fámusov (rapidly). Such are the people that race the world and waste their time. When they return, what order can you expect of them?
Chátski. I am done.
Fámusov. Please, spare me!
Chátski. It is not my desire to continue the dispute.
Fámusov. At least leave my soul to repentance.
SCENE 3. THE SAME AND SERVANT
Servant. Colonel Skalozúb!
Fámusov (not seeing or hearing him). You ’ll be court-martialled yet! They ’ll give you to drink.
Chátski. You have a guest.
Fámusov. I do not hear! You ’ll be court-martialled!
Chátski. Your servant is reporting to you.
Fámusov. I do not hear! You ’ll be court-martialled, court-martialled, I say!
Chátski. Just turn around, you are addressed.
Fámusov (turning around). Oh, rebellion! I am expecting nothing but Sodom!
Servant. Colonel Skalozúb! Shall he be received?
Fámusov (rising). Asses! Shall I repeat it a hundred times? Receive him, call him, ask him in, tell him I am at home, that I am glad. Begone, be in a hurry! (Exit Servant.) Please, sir, be careful in his presence; he is a distinguished gentleman, of solid habits, and he has no end of decorations; his rank is enviable, considering his age; ’t is but a question of a short time when he will be general!
SCENE 5. CHÁTSKI, FÁMUSOV, SKALOZÚB
Fámusov. Sergyéy Sergyéich, come here, near us! ’T is warmer here, come here! I ’ll open the register at once.
Skalozúb (in a heavy bass). Why should you trouble yourself? As an honourable officer I can’t permit that.
Fámusov. Why should I not take a step for a friend? Dear Sergyéy Sergyéich, put down your hat, take off your sword. Here is a sofa: make yourself comfortable.
Skalozúb. I do not care where, so I am seated.
(All three sit down, Chátski at some distance.)
Fámusov. O friend, not to forget: let us figure out our relationship—there is no inheritance to be divided here. Do you know—I used to know, thanks to what your cousin told me—how Nastásya Nikoláevna is related to you?
Skalozúb. Beg your pardon, I do not know: we did not serve together.
Fámusov. Sergyéy Sergyéich, do you say that? I am ready to get down on my knees before a relative of mine, wherever I may find him, though he be at the bottom of the sea. I seldom have subordinates who are not my relatives: they are nearly all my sister’s children, or some near relative’s; Molchálin only is not of my family, and for the reason that he knows about affairs. How can one help thinking of his family, when there is a chance for promotion or for decoration? Yet, your cousin told me that through you he has had many advantages in his service.
Skalozúb. Cousin and I distinguished ourselves in 1813 in the thirtieth of the Chasseurs, and later in the forty-fifth.
Fámusov. How fortunate is he who has such a son! He has, I believe, a decoration in the buttonhole?
Skalozúb. For August third. We stuck to a trench. He received his in the buttonhole, I—around my neck.
Fámusov. A lovely man! A fine fellow to look at! A splendid man is your cousin!
Skalozúb. He ’s chock-full of new-fangled rules. He was to get a higher rank, when he left the service, and began to read books in his village.
Fámusov. Strange youth! To read, and then—look out! You have acted as is proper: you have long been colonel, though you serve but shortly.
Skalozúb. I am sufficiently fortunate in my colleagues. Vacancies have been open just at the right time: some older ones have been retired, and others have been killed off.
Fámusov. Yes, if God wants to show one His favour, He advances him!
Skalozúb. Some are luckier than I. Not to go farther, I ’ll mention our brigadier-general in the fifteenth division.
Fámusov. But, I pray, you are lacking nothing.
Skalozúb. I can’t complain,—I have not been overlooked; yet, I have been two years with the same regiment.
Fámusov. Oh, you are after the rank of general! Still, in many other things you have left others far behind.
Skalozúb. No, there are older ones than I in the army: I have been serving since eighty-nine. Yes, there are many channels through which one may get promotion; I judge of them like a real philosopher: all I care for is the rank of general.
Fámusov. You judge excellently. God grant you health and the rank of general—and, why delay it longer?—it would be time to begin talking of a Mrs. Skalozúb.
Skalozúb. Get married? I am not disinclined.
Fámusov. Well! One has a sister, another a niece, a daughter. In Moscow there is no lack of prospective brides: they breed each year! My friend, confess, it would be hard to find another capital like Moscow.
Skalozúb. Distances of enormous proportion!
Fámusov. There are good taste, my friend, and excellent manners, and for everything there are laws. There, for example, it is an old custom with us that the son is honoured according to his father: let him be a worthless chap, but let him have two thousand peasants to his name, and he will be an eligible bridegroom; another may be much more agile, full of all kinds of pride, let him pass for a clever fellow,—yet he will not be a member of our families, nor need you wonder at this, for it is only here that we still respect noble birth. Nor is this all! Take our hospitable bread and salt: anyone who may wish to call on us is welcome! The door is open for invited and uninvited guests, especially if they be foreigners. It makes no difference to us whether they be honourable or dishonest men: dinner is prepared for all alike. On all the Muscovites, if you please, there is a special stamp. Just look at our youths, our sons, and grandchildren: we lecture them, but look close at them, and you will find that at fifteen years they are ready to teach their teachers! And our old men? When a notion strikes them, and they discuss affairs,—each word they say is a sentence passed. They are important men, and care not a fig for anyone. Should someone hear their discussions about the Government, there would be trouble! Not that they introduce innovations—never! The Lord preserve us, no! They simply find fault with this and that, and oftenest with nothing at all: they quarrel, make a noise, and go each one to his home. They are true ex-chancellors as regards their brains! I will tell you this much: evidently time has not been propitious, but no affair will be decided without them.
And the ladies? Let anyone try and get the better of them! They are judges in all things and everywhere,—there are no judges over them. When they rise in common riot at the cards,—then God grant us patience! Remember, I have myself been married! Order them to command an army! Send them to take their seats in the Senate! Irína Vlásevna! Lukórya Aleksyéevna! Tatyána Yúrevna! Pulkhériya Andréevna! And he who has seen their daughters will only hang his head! His Majesty the Prussian King was here: he admired beyond measure the Moscow maidens,—their mannerliness, not their faces! And forsooth! Can one be brought up better! They know how to primp themselves in taffeta, velvet, and dimity; they never say a word simply, but always with a grimace. They sing French romances, and strike the upper notes. They cling to the military,—because they are patriots. I must say emphatically: you will scarcely find another such a capital as Moscow!
Skalozúb. In my opinion, the conflagration has done much for its embellishment.
Fámusov. You have no cause for complaint: since then our roads, our sidewalks, houses, and all creak in a new fashion.
Chátski. The houses are new, but the prejudices old. Rejoice: neither years, nor fashion, nor conflagrations will annihilate them.
Fámusov (to Chátski). Sir, tie a knot for memory’s sake! I asked you to keep quiet,—’t is but a small service. (To Skalozúb.) Permit me, sir, to acquaint you with Chátski, a friend of mine, the son of the late Andréy Ilích! He does not serve, that is, he sees no advantage in it; he would make a good official, if he only wished so. ’T is a pity, a great pity: he is a young man with a head, and he writes and translates beautifully. One can’t help regretting⸺
Chátski. Can you not regret someone else? Even your praises anger me!
Fámusov. Not I alone,—everybody judges you thus.
Chátski. Who are the judges? They being old, their hostility against a free life cannot be assuaged: they draw their judgments from forgotten gazettes of the days of Ochákov and the conquest of the Crimea. Ever ready to chide, they eternally sing one and the same song, and do not notice that the older they grow, the worse they become. Where, show us, are the fathers of the fatherland whom we are to assume as our models? Perchance they are those who by robbery have grown rich, who find protection against the courts in their friends and families, and who erect magnificent palaces, where they indulge in banquets and lavishness, and where the foreign clients will not efface the meanest features of their former lives? Pray, whose mouth has in Moscow not been closed by dinners, suppers, and dances? Is it, perhaps, he to whom you took me still in my swaddling clothes, for some incomprehensible purpose, to make obeisances,—that Nestor of noble scoundrels, who was surrounded by a crowd of servants? They bestirred themselves for him, and in houses of wine and brawls more than once had saved his honour and his life,—and he suddenly exchanged three hounds for them. Or that other man who, to please his fancy, brought together in many waggons to an enforced ballet the children who had been torn away from their parents? Himself merged in contemplation of Zephyrs and Cupids, he caused all Moscow to admire their beauty; but he did not with all that appease his creditors: the Cupids and Zephyrs were all sold one by one.
These are the men who have lived to have grey hair! It is these that you wish us to respect in the wilderness! These are our austere arbiters and judges! Let now one among us young men be found who is an enemy of servility, who seeks neither a place, nor a promotion, who, thirsting for knowledge, bends his mind to the sciences, or into whose soul God Himself has implanted a fire for the high and beautiful creative arts,—they at once cry: murder! fire! and you at once pass for a dangerous dreamer. The uniform, nothing but the uniform! In their former existence their beautiful gold-laced uniforms had cloaked their pusillanimity and poverty of intelligence,—so they wish us Godspeed upon their own path. And their wives and daughters have the same passion for the uniforms. Is it long since I, sharing that weakness for it, have renounced it? Now I shall never again be prone to such childishness. But who would then not have been carried away together with all? When someone of the Guards or from the Court came here for a time, the women cried “Hurrah!” and threw their bonnets in the air.
Fámusov (aside). He will get me into trouble yet! (Aloud.) Sergyéy Sergyéich, I shall wait for you in the study. (Exit.)
Aleksándr Aleksándrovich Bestúzhev (pseud. Marlínski). (1797-1837.)
Bestúzhev was one of three brothers who took part in the Decembrist uprising. He had received a brilliant education at home, which, thanks to the industry of his highly cultivated father, was a museum in miniature. He turned his attention to literature in 1819, through his friend Rylyéev joined the December conspiracy, and was banished for only a few years to Siberia, because he had voluntarily surrendered himself. He was possessed of an unusually ardent nature, which led him to engage in most extravagant love affairs, with always a duel in prospect, and his many novels, with their transcendental Romanticism and perfervid diction, are only the expression of his inner experiences. He died in the Caucasus, in an engagement with the mountaineers, but his body was not recovered. He was, in his day, the most popular novelist, whom even Púshkin greatly admired, and several of his works have been translated into many languages, among them also into Georgian. His Ammalát Bek was translated into English by Thomas B. Shaw, in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, vol. liii., 1843; also The Tartar Chief; or, A Russian Colonel’s Head for Dowry, from the Russian of Marlinsky, by G. C. Hebbe, LLD., New York, 1846.
FROM “AMMALÁT BEK”
For some time past, the mountaineers had fallen in considerable numbers only on Christian villages, for in the stanítsas[5] the resistance had cost them very dear. For the plundering of houses they approached boldly yet cunningly the Russian frontier, and on such occasions they frequently escaped a battle. The bravest Uzdéns desire to meet with these affairs that they may acquire fame, which they value even more than plunder.
In the autumn of the year 1810, the Kabardinians and Chechenians, encouraged by the absence of the commander-in-chief, assembled to the number of fifteen hundred men to make an attack upon one of the villages beyond the Térek, to seize it, carry off prisoners, and take the droves of horses. The leader of the Kabardinians was the Prince Dzhembulát. Ammalát Bek, who had arrived with a letter from Sultan Akhmét Khan, was received with delight. They did not, indeed, assign him the command of any division; but this arose from the circumstance that with them there is no order of battle or gradation of command; an active horse and individual courage secures the most distinguished place in action. At first they deliberate how best to begin the attack,—how to repel the enemy; but afterwards they pay no attention to plan or order, and chance decides the affair.
Having sent messengers to summon the neighbouring Uzdéns, Dzhembulát fixed on a place of general assembling; and immediately, on a signal agreed on, from every height spread the cry: “Garáy, garáy!” (alarm), and in one hour the Chechenians and Kabardinians were assembling from all sides. To avoid treason, no one but the leader knew where the night-camp was to be, from which they were to cross the river. They were divided into small bands, and were to go by almost invisible paths to the peaceful village, where they were to conceal themselves till night. By twilight, all the divisions were already mustered.
As they arrived, they were received by their countrymen with frank embraces; but Dzhembulát, not trusting to this, guarded the village with sentinels, and proclaimed to the inhabitants that whoever attempted to desert to the Russians should be cut to pieces. The greater part of the Uzdéns took up their quarters in the sáklas of their kunáks or relations; but Dzhembulát and Ammalát, with the best of the cavaliers, slept in the open air around a fire, when they had refreshed their jaded horses. Dzhembulát, wrapped in his búrka, was considering, with folded arms, the plan of the expedition; but the thoughts of Ammalát were far from the battlefield: they were flying, eagle-winged, to the mountains of Avár, and bitterly, bitterly, did he feel his separation. The sound of an instrument, the mountain balaláyka, accompanying a slow air, recalled him from his reverie; and a Kabardinian sang an ancient song.
“On Kazbék the clouds are meeting, Like the mountain eagle-flock; Up to them, along the rock, Dash the wild Uzdéns retreating; Onward faster, faster fleeting, Routed by the Russian brood, Foameth all their track with blood. “Fast behind the regiments yelling, Lance and bayonet raging hot, And the seed of death their shot. On the mail the sabre knelling, Gallop, steed! for far thy dwelling,— See! they fall,—but distant still Is the forest of the hill! “Russian shot our hearts is rending, Falls the Moollah on his knee, To the Lord of Light bows he, To the Prophet he is bending; Like a shaft his prayer ascending, Upward flies to Allah’s throne— Il-Allah! Oh, save thine own! “Ah, despair!—What crash like thunder! Lo! a sign from heaven above! Lo! the forest seems to move, Crashes, murmurs, bursts asunder! Lower, nearer, wonder! wonder! Safe once more the Moslem bold In their forest mountain-hold!”
“So it was in old times,” said Dzhembulát, with a smile, “when our men trusted more to prayer, and God oftener listened to them; but now, my friends, there is a better hope,—your valour! Our omens are in the scabbards of our sabres, and we must show that we are not ashamed of them. Hark ye, Ammalát,” he continued, twisting his moustache, “I will not conceal from you that the affair may be warm. I have just heard that Colonel K⸺ has collected his division; but where he is, or how many troops he has, nobody knows.”
“The more Russians there are the better,” replied Ammalát, quietly; “the fewer mistakes will be made.”
“And the heavier will be the plunder.”
“I care not for that. I seek revenge and glory.”
“Glory is a good bird, when she lays a golden egg; but he that returns with his toróks (straps behind the saddle) empty, is ashamed to appear before his wife. Winter is near, and we must provide our households at the expense of the Russians, that we may feast our friends and allies. Choose your station, Ammalát Bek. Do you prefer to advance in front to carry off the flocks, or will you remain with me in the rear? I and the Abréks will march at a foot’s pace to restrain the pursuers.”
“That is what I also intend. I will be where the greatest peril is. But what are the Abréks, Dzhembulát?”
“It is not easy to explain. You sometimes see several of our boldest cavaliers take an oath, binding them for two or three years, or as long as they like, never to mingle in games or gaieties, never to spare their lives in battle, to give no quarter, never to pardon the least offence in a brother or a friend, to seize the goods of others without fear or scruple,—in a word, to be the foes of all mankind, strangers in their family, men whom any person may slay if he can; in the village they are dangerous neighbours, and in meeting them you must keep your hand on the trigger; but in war one can trust them.”
“For what motive, or reason, can the Uzdéns make such an engagement?”
“Some simply to show their courage, others from poverty, a third class from some misfortune. See, for instance, yonder tall Kabardinian; he has sworn to be an Abrék for five years, since his mistress died of the smallpox. Since that year it would be as well to make acquaintance with a tiger as with him. He has already been wounded three times for blood vengeance; but he cares not for that.”
“Strange custom! How will he return from the life of an Abrék to a peaceable existence?”
“What is there strange in this? The past glides from him as water from the wild-duck. His neighbours will be delighted when he has finished his term of brigandage. And he, after putting off Abrékism, as a serpent sheds his skin, will become gentle as a lamb. Among us, none but the avenger of blood remembers yesterday. But the night is darkening. The mists are spreading over Térek. It is time for the work.”
Dzhembulát whistled, and his whistle was repeated to all the outposts of the camp. In a moment the whole band was assembled. Several Uzdéns joined from the neighbouring friendly villages. After a short discussion as to the passage of the river, the band moved in silence to the bank. Ammalát Bek could not but admire the stillness, not only of the riders, but of their horses; not one of them neighed or snorted, and they seemed to place their feet on the ground with caution.
They marched like a voiceless cloud, and soon they reached the bank of Térek, which, making a winding at this spot, formed a promontory, and from it to the opposite shore extended a pebbly shoal. The water over this bank was shallow and fordable; nevertheless, a part of the detachment left the shore higher up, in order to swim past the Cossacks, and, diverting their attention from the principal passage, to cover the fording party. Those who had confidence in their horses leaped unhesitatingly from the bank, while others tied to each fore-foot of their steeds a pair of small skins, inflated with air like bladders: the current bore them on, and each landed wherever he found a convenient spot.
Daybreak appeared; the fog began to separate, and discovered a picture at once magnificent and terrible. The principal band of foragers dragged the prisoners after it,—some were at the stirrup, others behind the saddle, with their arms tied at their backs. Tears, and groans, and cries of despair were stifled by the threats or frantic cries of joy of the victors. Loaded with plunder, impeded by the flocks and horned cattle, they advanced slowly towards the Térek. The princes and best cavaliers, in mail-coats and casques glittering like water, galloped round the dense mass, as lightning flashes round a living cloud.
In the distance were galloping up from every point the Cossacks of the Line; they ambushed behind the shrubs and straggling oak-trees, and soon began an irregular fire with the brigands who were sent against them. In the meantime, the foremost had driven across the river a portion of the flocks, when a cloud of dust, and the tramp of the cavalry, announced the approaching storm.
About six hundred mountaineers, commanded by Dzhembulát and Ammalát, turned their horses to repulse the attack, and give time to the rest to escape by the river. Without order, but with wild cries and shouts, they dashed forward to meet the Cossacks; but not a single gun was taken from its belt, not a single sabre glimmered in the air: a Circassian waits till the last moment before he seizes his weapons. And thus, having galloped to the distance of twenty paces, they levelled their guns, fired at full speed, threw their fire-arms over their backs, and drew their sabres; but the Cossacks of the Line, having replied with a volley, began to fly, and the mountaineers, heated by the chase, fell into a stratagem which they often employ themselves.
The Cossacks had led them up to the Chasseurs of the brave forty-third regiment, who were concealed at the edge of the forest. Suddenly, as if the little squares had started out of the earth, the bayonets were levelled, and the fire poured on them, taking them in flank. It was in vain that the mountaineers, dismounting from their horses, essayed to occupy the underwood and attack the Russians from the rear; the artillery came up and decided the affair. The experienced Colonel Kortsarév, the dread of the Chechenians, the man whose bravery they feared and whose honesty and disinterestedness they respected, directed the movements of the troops, and success could not be doubtful. The cannon dispersed the crowds of brigands, and their grape flew after the flying.
The defeat was terrible; two guns, dashing at a gallop to the promontory, not far from which the Circassians were throwing themselves into the river, enfiladed the stream; with a rushing sound, the shot flew over the foaming waves, and at each fire some of the horses might be seen to turn over with their feet in the air, drowning their riders. It was sad to see how the wounded clutched at the tails and bridles of the horses of their companions, sinking them without saving themselves,—how the exhausted struggled against the scarped bank, endeavouring to clamber up, fell back, and were borne away and engulfed by the furious current. The corpses of the slain were whirled away, mingled with the dying, and streaks of blood curled and writhed like serpents on the foam. The smoke floated along the Térek, far in the distance, and the snowy peaks of the Caucasus, crowned with mist, bounded the field of battle.
Dzhembulát and Ammalát Bek fought desperately,—twenty times did they rush to the attack, twenty times were they repulsed; wearied, but not conquered, with a hundred brigands they swam the river, dismounted, attached their horses to each other by the bridle, and began a warm fire from the other side of the river, to cover their surviving comrades. Intent upon this, they remarked, too late, that the Cossacks were passing the river above them; with a shout, the Russians leaped upon the bank, and surrounded them in a moment. Their fate was inevitable.
“Well, Dzhembulát,” said the Bek to the Kabardinian, “our lot is finished. Do you what you will: but for me, I will not render myself a prisoner alive. ’T is better to die by a ball than by a shameful cord!”
“Do you think,” answered Dzhembulát, “that my arms were made for a chain? Allah keep me from such a blot! The Russians may take my body, but not my soul. Never, never! Brethren, comrades!” he cried to the others, “fortune has betrayed us, but the steel will not. Let us sell our lives dearly to the Giaour. The victor is not he who keeps the field, but he who has the glory; and the glory is his who prefers death to slavery!”
“Let us die, let us die, but let us die gloriously!” cried all, piercing with their daggers the sides of their horses, that the enemy might not take them, and then piling up the dead bodies of their steeds, they lay down behind the heap, preparing to meet the attack with lead and steel.
Well aware of the obstinate resistance they were about to encounter, the Cossacks stopped, and made ready for the charge. The shot from the opposite bank sometimes fell in the midst of the brave mountaineers, sometimes a grenade exploded, covering them with earth and fragments; but they showed no confusion, they started not, nor blenched; and, after the custom of their country, began to sing, with a melancholy yet threatening voice, the death-song, replying alternately stanza for stanza.
DEATH-SONG
Chorus “Fame to us, death to you, Alla-ha, Alla-hu!”
Semichorus “Weep, O ye maidens, on mountain and valley, Lift the dirge for the souls of the brave! We have fired our last bullet, have made our last rally, And Caucasus gives us a grave. Here the soft pipe no more shall invite us to slumber,— The thunder our lullaby sings; Our eyes not the maiden’s dark tresses shall cumber, Them the raven shall shade with his wings! Forget, O my children, your father’s stern duty,— No more shall he bring ye the Muscovite booty!” Second Semichorus “Weep not, ye maidens! Your sisters in splendour, The Houris, they bend from the sky, They fix on the brave their sun-glance deep and tender, And to Paradise bear him on high! In your feast-cup, my brethren, forget not our story: The death of the Free is the noblest of glory!” First Semichorus “Roar, winter torrent, and sullenly dash! But where is the brave one,—the swift lightning-flash? Soft star of my soul, my mother, Sleep, the fire let ashes smother; Gaze no more, thine eyes are weary, Sit not by the threshold stone; Gaze not through the night-fog dreary, Eat thine evening meal alone, Seek him not, O mother, weeping, By the cliff and by the ford! On a bed of dust he ’s sleeping,— Broken is both heart and sword!” Second Semichorus “Mother, weep not! with thy love burning: This heart of mine beats full and free, And to lion-blood is turning That soft milk I drew from thee; And our liberty from danger Thy brave son has guarded well; Battling with the Christian stranger, Called by Azrael, he fell; From my blood fresh odours breathing, Fadeless flowers shall drink the dew; To my children fame bequeathing, Brethren, and revenge to you!” Chorus “Pray, my brethren, ere we part: Clutch the steel with hate and wrath! Break it in the Russian’s heart,— O’er corses lies the brave man’s path! Fame to us, death to you, Alla-ha, Alla-hu!”
Struck by a certain involuntary awe, the Chasseurs and Cossacks listened in silence to the stern sounds of this song; but at last a loud hurrah resounded from both sides. The Circassians, with a shout, fired their guns for the last time, and breaking them against the stones, they threw themselves dagger in hand, upon the Russians. The Abréks in order that their line might not be broken, bound themselves to each other with their girdles, and hurled themselves into the mêlée. Quarter was neither asked nor given: all fell before the bayonets of the Russians.
“Forward! Follow me, Ammalát Bek,” cried Dzhembulát, with fury, rushing into the combat which was to be his last: “Forward! For us death is liberty!”
But Ammalát heard not his call: a blow from a musket on the back of the head stretched him on the earth, already sown with corpses and covered with blood.
—Transl. by Thomas B. Shaw, in Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, vol. liii. (1843).
Iván Ivánovich Lazhéchnikov. (1794-1869.)
Lazhéchnikov was the most famous of Russian novelists before Gógol. His father was a rich grain and salt merchant in the city of Kolómna, and he spared no money for the education of his son. At sixteen years Lazhéchnikov wrote his Thoughts in Imitation of La Bruyère, which was published in The Messenger of Europe. His father having lost all his property, he accepted a government position, but in 1812 joined the army and with it went through the whole French campaign. In 1819 appeared his Campaign Memoirs of a Russian Officer, which are full of youthful ardour, patriotism, and a consciousness of the European importance of Russia. Having attracted the attention of the Court, he received various appointments, but again left the service in 1826. He then wrote his three great novels on which his reputation rests, namely, The Last Noviks, The Ice House, and The Heretic. His later stories did not sustain his fame.
In English has appeared The Heretic, translated from the Russian of Lajetchnikoff, by Thomas B. Shaw (in three volumes), Edinburgh and London, 1844, and again, under the title The Heretic and the Maid of Moscow, a Romance of Russia, by Thos. B. Shaw, London, 1849.
THE HERETIC
PROLOGUE
It was the 27th of October, 1505. As if for the coronation of a Tsar, Moscow was decorated and adorned. The Cathedral of the Assumption, the Church of the Annunciation, the Stone Palace, the Tower Palace, the Kreml with its towers, a multitude of stone churches and houses scattered over the city—all this, just come out of the hands of skilful architects, bore the stamp of freshness and newness, as if it had risen up in one day by an almighty will. In reality, all this had been created in a short time by the genius of Ioánn III. A person who, thirty years back, had left Moscow, poor, insignificant, resembling a large village, surrounded by hamlets, would not have recognised it had he seen it now; so soon had all Russia arisen at the single manly call of this great genius.
Taking the colossal infant under his princely guardianship, he had torn off its swaddling bands, and not by years, but by hours, he reared it to a giant vigour. Nóvgorod and Pskov, which had never vailed their bonnet to mortal man, had yet doffed it to him, and had even brought him the tribute of liberty and gold: the yoke of the Khans had been cast off, and hurled beyond the frontiers of the Russian land; Kazán, though she had taken cover from the mighty hunter, yet had taken cover like the she-wolf that has no earth,—her territories had melted away, and were united into one mighty appanage; and the ruler who created all this was the first Russian sovereign who realised the idea of a Tsar.
Nevertheless, on the 27th of October, 1505, the Moscow which he had thus adorned was preparing for a spectacle not joyful but melancholy. Ioánn, enfeebled in mind and body, lay upon his death-bed. He had forgotten his great exploits; he remembered only his sins, and repented of them.
It was towards the evening-tide. In the churches gleamed the lonely lamps; through the mica and bladder panes of the windows glimmered the fires, kindled in their houses by faith or by necessity. But nowhere was it popular love which had lighted them; for the people did not comprehend the services of the great man, and loved him not for his innovations. At one corner of the prison, the Black House, but later than the other houses, was illumined by a weak and flickering light. On the bladder which was the substitute for glass in the window, the iron grating, with its spikes, threw a net-like shadow, which was only relieved by a speck, at one moment glittering like a spark, at another emitting a whirling stream of vapour. It was evident that the prisoner had made this opening in the bladder, in order, unperceived by his guards, to look forth upon the light of heaven.
This was part of the prison, and in it even now was pining a youthful captive. He seemed not more than twenty. So young! What early transgression could have brought him here? From his face you would not believe in such transgressions; you would not believe that God could have created that fair aspect to deceive. So handsome and so noble that you would think never had one evil intention passed over that tranquil brow, never had one passion played in those eyes, filled with love to his neighbour and calm melancholy. And yet, by his tall and majestic figure, as he starts from his reverie, and shakes his raven curls, he seems to be born a lord, and not a slave. His hands are white and delicate as a woman’s. On the throat of his shirt blazes a button of emerald; in the damp and smoky room, on a broad bench against the wall, are a feather-bed with a pillow of damask, and with a silken covering; and by the bedside a coffer of white bone in filigree work. Evidently he is not a common prisoner. No common prisoner!—no, he is a crowned prince!—and pure in thought and deed as the dwellers of the skies.
All his crime is a diadem, which he did not seek, and which was placed on his head by the caprice of his sovereign; in no treason, in no crime had he been accomplice; he was guilty by the guilt of others,—by the ambition of two women, the intrigues of the courtiers, the anger of his grandfather against the others, and not against him. They had destined him a throne, and they had dragged him to a dungeon. He understood not why they crowned him, and now he understands not why they deprived him of liberty,—of the light of heaven,—of all that they deny not even to the meanest. For him his nearest kinsman dared not even pray aloud.
This was the grandson of Iván III., the only child of his beloved son,—Dmítri Ivánovich.
At one time he sat in melancholy musing, resting his elbows on his knees, and losing his fingers in the dark curls of his hair; then he would arise, then lie down. He was restless as though they had given him poison. No one was with him. A solitary taper lighted up his miserable abode. The stillness of the room was disturbed only by the drops from the ceiling, or the mice nibbling the crumbs that had fallen from the captive’s table. The little light now died away, now flared up again; and in these flashes it seemed as though rows of gigantic spiders crept along the wall. In reality, these were scribbling in various languages, scrawled with charcoal or with a nail. Hardly was it possible to spell out among them—“Matheas,” “Marfa, burgomistress of Nóvgorod the Great,” “Accursed be⸺,” “Liebe Mutter, liebe A⸺”; and several words more, half obliterated by the damp which had trickled along the wall, or been scratched out by the anger or the ignorance of the guards.
The door of the dungeon softly opened. Dmítri Ivánovich started up. “Afóniya, is it thou?” he joyfully enquired; but seeing that he had mistaken for another the person who entered, he exclaimed sadly: “Ah, is it thou, Nebogáty! Why cometh not Afóniya? I am sad, I am lonely, I am devoured by grief, as if a serpent lay at my heart. Didst thou not say that Afóniya would come as soon as they lighted the candles in the houses?”
“Afanási Nikítin[6] hath a mind as single as his eye,” said the deacon Dmítri Nebogáty, a kind and good-natured officer, yet strict in the performance of the charge given him by the Great Prince, of guarding his grandson. (We may remark that at this time he, in consequence of the illness of Dmítri, the treasurer and groom of the bedchamber, fulfilled their duties. All honour to a prince, even though he be a prisoner!)
“Make thyself easy, Dmítri Ivánovich; soon, be sure, will come our orator. Thou wottest thyself he groweth infirm, he seeth not well, and so must grope along the wall; and till he cometh, my dear child, play, amuse thyself with thy toys. Sit down cozily on thy bed; I will give thee thy coffer.”
And Dmítri Ivánovich, a child, though he was more than twenty years old, to escape from the weariness that oppressed him, instantly accepted the proposition of his deacon, sat down with his feet on his bed, took the ivory box upon his knees, and opened it with a key that hung at his girdle. By degrees, one after the other, he drew out into the light a number of precious articles which had been imprisoned in the coffer.
The young prince held up to the fire, now a chain of gold with bears’ heads carved on the links, or a girdle of scaly gold, then signet rings of jacinth or emerald, then crucifixes, collars, bracelets, precious studs: he admired them, threw the collars round his neck, and asked the deacon whether they became him; took orient pearls and rubies by the handful, let them stream like rain through his fingers, amused himself in playing with them, like an absolute child—and suddenly, hearing a voice in the neighbouring chamber, threw them all back anyhow into the coffer. His face lighted up.
“’T is Afóniya!” he cried, giving back the box to the deacon, and descending from the bed.
“Lock it, Dmítri Ivánovich!” said Nebogáty firmly: “without that I will not receive it.”
Hastily clinked the key in the coffer; the door opened, and there entered the room an old man of low stature, bowed down by the burden of years; the silver of his hair was already becoming golden with age. From the top of his head to the corner of his left eye was deeply gashed a scar, which had thus let fall an eternal curtain before that eye, and therefore the other was fixed in its place, like a precious stone of wondrous water, for it glittered with unusual brilliancy, and seemed to see for itself and for its unfortunate twin brother. No son more affectionately meets a tenderly beloved father than Dmítri Ivánovich met the old man. Joy sparkled in the eyes of the Tsarévich, and spoke in his every gesture.
He took his guest’s walking-staff, shook from his dress the powdered snow, embraced him, and seated him in the place of honour on his bed. Nevertheless, the guest was no more than Afanási Nikítin, a merchant of Tver, a trader without trade, without money, poor, but rich in knowledge, which he had acquired in an adventurous journey to India, rich in experience and fancies, which he knew how to adorn beside with a sweet and enchanting eloquence. He lived on the charity of his friends, and yet was no man’s debtor: the rich he paid with his tales, and to the poor he gave them for nothing. He was allowed to visit the Great Prince Dmítri Ivánovich (whom, however, it was forbidden to call Great Prince). We may judge how delightfully he filled up the dreadful solitude of the youth’s imprisonment, and how dear he therefore was to the captive. And what did Dmítri give him for his labour? Much, very much to a good heart,—his delight, the only pleasure left him in the world,—and this reward the Tver man would not have exchanged for gold. Once the Tsarévich had desired to present him with one of the precious articles from his ivory box; but the deacon gently reminded the captive that all the articles in his coffer were his, that he might play with them as much as he pleased, but that he was not at liberty to dispose of them.
The day before Afanási Nikítin had begun a tale about the “Almayne,” surnamed the Heretic. To-day, when he had seated himself, he continued it. His speech flowed on like the song of a nightingale, which we listen to from the flush of morning till the glow of eve without shutting our eyes even for a moment. Greedily did the Tsarévich listen to the story-teller, his cheeks burned, and often tears streamed from his eyes. Far, very far, he was borne away from his dungeon, and only from time to time the rude brawling of the guards behind the partition-wall recalled him to bitter reality. In the meantime the deacon Nebogáty’s pen was hurriedly scratching along the parchment: the sheets, pasted one to another in a long line, were fast covered with strange hieroglyphics, and wound up into a huge roll. He was writing down from Afanási Nikítin’s mouth, A tale touching a certain Almayne, surnamed the Heretic.
Suddenly, in the midst of the tale, there rushed into the dungeon the court officer of the Great Prince. “Iván Vasílevich is about to render up his soul to God,” said he hastily; “he grieveth much about thee, and hath sent for thee. Make haste!”
The prince was convulsively agitated. Over his face, which became as white as a sheet, passed some thought; it flashed in his eyes. Oh, this was a thought of Paradise! Freedom⸺a crown⸺the people⸺mercy⸺perhaps a block⸺what was there not in that thought? The captive—the child who had just been playing with jewels—arose the Great Prince of all Russia.
Iván was still a sovereign, though on his dying bed; death had not yet locked for ever his lips, and those lips might yet determine on his successor. The thoughts of another life, remorse, an interview with his grandson, whom he had himself of his own free will crowned Tsar, and whom they had just brought from a dungeon,—what force must these thoughts have on the will of the dying man!
They gave the prince his bonnet, and just as he stood, conducted by the deacon and other officers, he hastened to the Great Prince’s palace. In the hall he encountered the sobbing of the kinsmen and servants of the Tsar. “It is over!—My grandsire is dead!” thought he, and his heart sunk within him, his steps tottered.
The appearance of Dmítri Ivánovich in the palace of the Great Prince interrupted for a time the general lamentation, real and feigned. The unexpectedness, the novelty of the object, the strange fate of the prince, pity, the thought that he, perhaps, would be the sovereign of Russia in a moment, overwhelmed the minds and hearts of the courtiers. But even at this period there were among the long-beards some wise heads: acute, far-sighted calculations, which we now call politics, were then as now oracles of fate, and though sometimes, as happens even in our own days, they were overthrown by the mighty hand of Providence.
These calculations triumphed over the momentary astonishment; the tears and sobbing began again, and were communicated to the crowd. Only one voice, amidst the expressions of simulated woe, ventured to raise itself above them: “Haste, my lord, our native prince,—thou hast been sent for no short time,—Iván Vasílevich is yet alive,—the Lord bless thee, and make thee our Great Prince!”
This voice reassured the youth; but when he was about to enter the bedchamber where the dying man lay, his strength began to fail. The door opened; his feet seemed nailed to the threshold. Iván had only a few minutes left to live. It seemed as if death awaited only the arrival of his grandson, to give him his dismissal. Around his bed stood his sons, the primate, his favourite boyárs, his kinsmen.
“Hither,—to me, Dmítri,—my dear grandson,” said the Great Prince, recognising him through the mists of death.
Dmítri Ivánovich threw himself towards the bed, fell upon his knees, kissed the cold hand of his grandsire, and bedewed it with tears. The dying man, as if by the power of galvanism, raised himself, laid one hand on his grandson’s head, with the other blessed him, then spoke in a breathless voice: “I have sinned before God and thee⸺Forgive me⸺forgive⸺The Lord and I have crowned thee⸺be⸺my⸺”
The face of Vasíli Ioánnovich was convulsed with envy and fear. Yet one word more⸺
But death then stood on the side of the strongest, and that word was never pronounced in this world. The Great Prince Iván Vasílevich yielded up his last breath, applying his cold lips to the forehead of his grandson. His son, who had been earlier designated by him as his heir, immediately entered into all his rights. They tore Dmítri from the death-bed, led him out of the Great Prince’s palace, and conducted him back to his dungeon. There, stretched on his bed, was reposing Afóniya in the deep slumber of the just. Having bewailed his woes, the ill-fated Dmítri lay down beside the old man. Prince and peasant were there equal. The one dreamed that night of royal banquets, and of a glorious crown, glittering like fire, upon his head, and of giving audience to foreign ambassadors, and reviewing vast armies; the other, of the hospitable palm and the rivulet in the deserts of Arabia. The poor man awaked the first, and how was he surprised to find the Tsarévich by his side! Mournfully he shook his hoary head, and wept, and was about to bless him, when he heard the joyful gallant cry of Dmítri Ivánovich as he dreamed—“Warriors!⸺on the Tartars!⸺on Lithuania!⸺”
And immediately awoke the young prince. Long he rubbed his eyes, and gazed around him, and then, falling on Afóniya’s bosom, he melted into tears. “Ah, father, father, I have been dreaming⸺”
His words were strangled by sobs.
Soon all that he had seen and heard in the palace of the Great Prince began to appear to him as a dream. Only when he recalled to his memory that weary vision, he felt on his forehead the icy seal which had been placed on it by the lips of the dying Tsar.
The winter came: all was as before in the Black House; nothing but the decorations of the scene had changed: the uniform sound of the falling drops was dumb, the bright speck had vanished from the bladder window-pane; instead, a silvery film of frost adhered to the corners of the walls and the crevices of the ceiling, and the bright speck, through which the captive could see the heavens, with their sun and free birds, was veiled with a thick patch. But Afóniya, as of old, visited the dungeon. He had finished his tale of the Almayne, whom they called the Heretic, and the scribe Nebogáty, putting it on paper word for word, had placed the roll in his iron chest,—an amusement for his descendants.
Thus passed a little more than three years.
The royal prisoner was no longer in the dungeon, and Afanási Nikítin was seen no more within it. Assuredly Dmítri Ivánovich had been set at liberty. Yes, the Lord had set him free from all earthly bonds. Thus writes an annalist: “In the year 1509, on the fourteenth of February, departed this life the Grand Prince Dmítri Ivánovich, in prison.” Gerberstein adds: “It is thought he was starved—with cold or with hunger—to death, or stifled with smoke.”—From The Heretic, translated from the Russian by Thomas B. Shaw, Edinburgh and London, 1844.
Baron Antón Antónovich Délvig. (1798-1831.)
Délvig entered the Lyceum at Tsárskoe-Seló on the same day with Púshkin, whose friend he remained to his death. He began writing poetry at about the same time as his more gifted schoolmate. At first he confined himself to more or less close imitations of Horace, but under Púshkin’s influence he soon turned his attention to original poems. Though only a star of the second magnitude, his verses became very popular and were set to music. Later they served as the starting-point for the popular poets, Koltsóv, Nekrásov, and others.
GLOOMY THOUGHTS
To-day I feast with you, dear friends, With joy our spirits burn; To-morrow’s chance may find me there Whence I shall not return. Thus, long ago, I spake to those Who were with merriment wild; For gloomy thoughts of coming grief Possessed me from a child. My laughing friends around my locks Enwreathed a fresh bright crown; “For shame!” they cried; “youth’s not a time To wear a moody frown.” War breaking out, my friends to it As to a banquet prest; I with them; but me cruel fate Soon parted from the rest. In weary idleness their steps I followed mentally; And oft their relatives I cheered With words of victory. Time passed: the thoughts of days gone by Sad tears of sorrow yield; Then ceased the war. Where are my friends? Dead on the battlefield. Now I am sorrowful at feasts, Where others’ joy is great; In wine-cups e’en the past recalled Embitters all my state.
—From C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics.
Sang a little bird, and sang, And grew silent; Knew the heart of merriment, And forgot it. Why, O little songster bird, Grew you quiet? How learned you, O heart, to know Gloomy sorrow? Ah! the little bird was killed By grim snow-blasts; Perished is the fellow brave Through ill gossips! Had the bird but flown away Tow’rds the blue sea! Had the youth but run away Tow’rds the forest! On the sea the billows roar, And not snow-blasts; In the woods are evil beasts, And not people!
Ah, you night, you little night! Ah, you night, you stormy night! Why from early evening tide Even to the midnight late Twinkle not your little stars, Shineth not your full-orbed moon? You are veiled with darkling clouds! ’T is with you, I think, O night, Even as with me, young man,— Villain grief has called on us! When the dire one takes abode Somewhere deep within the heart,— You forget the lasses fair, Dances and obeisances; You forget from evening tide Even to the midnight late, Singing songs, to take delight In the chorus and the dance. No, you sob, you weep aloud,— And, a sad and lonely lad, You upon your coarse straw bed Throw yourself as in the grave!
Aleksándr Sergyéevich Púshkin. (1799-1837.)
Púshkin was descended, on his father’s side, from a family of distinguished men, and, on his mother’s side, from Peter the Great’s favourite negro, Hannibal. Having early lost his mother, he was brought up by his grandmother, but the greatest influence upon his first education had his nurse, Arína Rodiónovna, who charmed him with her rich stock of popular stories and fairy tales, and who, even later in life, inspired him with national themes. In 1811 Púshkin entered the newly opened Lyceum at Tsárskoe Seló, where he did not display any especial aptitude for studies; but he soon began to write poetry, and in 1817, at graduation, read his own production which attracted attention. After leaving school he threw himself into the whirl of society pleasures, but at the same time devoted himself to his first great poem, still in the Romantic style of the older generation, Ruslán and Lyudmíla. In 1820 he incurred the displeasure of the Government for writing some verses on liberty and for his liberal utterances. He was banished to the south, passing part of the time in the Caucasus. Here his genius was unfolded in all its greatness. In the Caucasus he wrote The Prisoner of the Caucasus; the Crimea gave him material for his Bakhchisaráy Fountain; in the neighbourhood of Odessa he composed his Gypsies and laid the foundation for Evgéni Onyégin, besides writing a large number of smaller poems. In 1824 Púshkin was permitted to return to his native village, in the Government of Pskov, where he remained two years, after which he was, by the intercession of his friends, allowed to settle in the capitals. In this last period of his activity he devoted himself more especially to subjects taken from Russian life. He wrote his series of fairy tales, illustrated the acts of Peter the Great by a number of poems, of which The Bronze Rider is the best known, and wrote a History of the Pugachév Rebellion. Aspersion upon his domestic life caused him to challenge to a duel the son of the Dutch ambassador, by whom he was killed in 1837, in his thirty-eighth year.
Púshkin’s great poetical genius has not been surpassed by that of any other Russian poet, and has only been equalled by that of Lérmontov. All the later generations have drawn their inspiration from him. Since the forties his importance has been obscured by the universal domination of the democratic spirit in literature, as evidenced in the Russian novel. The celebration of the centennary anniversary of his birth has given rise to a wide-spread interest in Púshkin, and his influence is again in the ascendant.
Púshkin’s prose tales have often been translated into English: Queen of Spades, in Chambers’s Papers, 1850, and Living Age, 1850, also in Gift of Friendship, 1854; The Captain’s Daughter, translated by J. F. Hanstein, London, 1859; some tales in Simple Tales, a Reading Book for Little Folks, by Mary Anna Pietzker, St. Petersburg, 1860; The Pistolshot, in the Albion, 1861; Russian Romance (consisting of miscellaneous tales), by Mrs. J. B. Telfer (née Mouravieff), London, 1873 and 1880; Queen of Spades, in Lippincott’s Magazine, 1876; Marie, a Story of Russian Love, by Marie H. de Zielinska, Chicago, 1877 (1876); The Captain’s Daughter, a Tale of the Time of Catherine II. of Russia, translated by Madame Igelström and Mrs. Percy Easton, London, 1883; Queen of Spades, in Modern Age, 1884; The Daughter of the Commandant, a Russian Romance, translated by Mrs. Milne Home, London, 1891; The Queen of Spades and Other Stories, from the Russian, by Mrs. Sutherland Edwards (the first three stories had appeared before in the Strand Magazine), London, 1892; Tales from the Russian, I.—Dubrovsky (in Railway and General Automatic Library), London, 1892; The Prose Tales of A. Poushkin, from the Russian, by T. Keane, London, 1894 and 1896.
Of his poetical works the following have been translated: Extracts from Ruslán and Lyudmíla, The Prisoner, The Robbers, in Russian Literature and Poetry, in Foreign Review, 1827; extracts from The Fountain of Bakhchisaráy and Poltava in The Foreign Quarterly Review, 1832; The Talisman, with Other Pieces (The Hermit), translated by George Borrow, St. Petersburg, 1835; Pushkin, the Russian Poet (containing October 19, 1825, Caucasus, To ⸺, The Mob, The Black Shawl, The Rose, Napoleon, The Storm, The General, Alas for Her, To the Sea, Echo, The Lay of the Wise Oleg, Remembrance, I have outlived the hopes that charmed me, Motion, To the Slanderers of Russia, Presentiment, The Madonna, André Chénier), by T. B. Shaw, in The Edinburgh Blackwood Magazine, 1845; The Bakhchesarian Fountain, W. D. Lewis, Philadelphia, 1849; several poems, by W. R. Morfill, in Constitutional Press, 1860; On the Calumniators of Russia, by W. R. Morfill, in Literary Gazette, 1861; Translations from Russian and German Poets, by a Russian Lady (containing two extracts from The Gypsies, The Poet, The Angel, The 19th of October, The Demon, and several minor poems), Baden-Baden, 1878; Eugene Oneguine, translated by Lieut. Col. Spalding, London, 1881; The Black Shawl, The Talisman, Ode to the Sea, and several extracts (the first two, amended, in The Story of Russia, New York and London, 1890), by W. R. Morfill, in Westminster Review, 1883; The Flower, The Birds, The Bridegroom, The Winter Journey, The Anchor, Poltava, Song of Oleg the Wise, To ⸺, The Angel, The Demons, in C. T. Wilson’s Russian Lyrics, London, 1887; Poems by Alexander Pushkin, translated by Ivan Panin, Boston, 1888; parts of Boris Godunov in Shakespeare and the Russian Drama, by N. H. Dole, in Poet Lore, vol. i. (1889); I wander down the noisy streets, Anacreontic, To his Wife, Let me not lose my senses, I’ve overlived aspirings, Peter the Great, The Prophet, Play, My Kathleen, A Monument, The Poet, in John Pollen’s Rhymes from the Russian, London, 1891. In Free Russia have appeared: by Charlotte Sidgwick, in vol. x., No. 1, The Poison-Tree, ib., No. 3, The Monument; by Mrs. M. G. Walker, in vol. x., No. 4, The Prophet; by Elizabeth Gibson, vol. xii., No. 2, A Message. In The Anglo-Russian Literary Society have been published: some verses, by a Russian lady, in No. 11; by F. P. Marchant, Scene from “Boris Godunov,” in No. 13, The Shield of Oleg, in No. 15, The Prophet, The Three Springs, The Prayer, Truth, in No. 22, To My Friends, in No. 32; by J. Pollen, The Talisman, in No. 22; by Miss H. Frank, The Demons, in No. 34; by L. A. Magnus, Through clam’rous streets my feet may stray, in No. 33. In the Library of the World’s Best Literature are given: by N. H. Dole, The Bard, The Angel, The Free Life of the Bird (a different version of this poem is given below); reprints of several of T. B. Shaw’s and J. Pollen’s poems, and extracts from Boris Godunov and Evgeni Onyegin, by Miss I. Hapgood.
FROM “THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER”
As I crossed the square I saw several Bashkirs assembled round the gibbets, engaged in dragging off the boots of those who had been hanged. With difficulty I repressed my indignation, feeling convinced that if I gave expression to it, it would have been perfectly useless. The brigands invaded every part of the fortress, and plundered the officers’ houses. On every side resounded the shouts of the drunken mutineers. I reached home. Savélich met me on the threshold.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed when he saw me; “I was beginning to think that the villains had seized you again. Ah! my little father, Peter Andréich, will you believe it, the robbers have plundered us of everything—clothes, linen, furniture, plate—they have not left us a single thing. But what does it matter? Thank God! they have spared your life. But, my lord, did you recognise their leader?”
“No, I did not recognise him. Who is he then?”
“How, my little father! Have you forgotten that drunken scoundrel who swindled you out of the pelisse at the inn? A brand new hairskin pelisse; and the beast burst the seams in putting it on.”
I was astounded. In truth, the resemblance of Pugachév to my guide was very striking. I felt convinced that Pugachév and he were one and the same person, and then I understood why he had spared my life. I could not but feel surprised at the strange connection of events—a child’s pelisse, given to a roving vagrant, had saved me from the hangman’s noose, and a drunkard, who had passed his life in wandering from one inn to another, was now besieging fortresses and shaking the empire!
“Will you not eat something?” asked Savélich, still faithful to his old habits. “There is nothing in the house; but I will go and search, and get something ready for you.”
When I was left alone, I began to reflect. What was I to do? To remain in the fortress now that it was in the hands of the villain, or to join his band, was unworthy of an officer. Duty demanded that I should go wherever my services might still be of use to my fatherland in the present critical position of its affairs⸺ But love strongly urged me to remain near Maria Ivánovna and be her protector and defender. Although I foresaw a speedy and inevitable change in the course of affairs, yet I could not help trembling when I thought of the danger of her situation. My reflections were interrupted by the arrival of one of the Cossacks, who came to inform me that “the great Tsar required me to appear before him.”
“Where is he?” I asked, preparing to obey.
“In the Commandant’s house,” replied the Cossack. “After dinner our father took a bath, but at present he is resting. Ah! your Excellency, it is very evident that he is a distinguished person; at dinner he deigned to eat two roasted sucking pigs, then he entered the bath, where the water was so hot that even Tarás Kúrochkin could not bear it; he had to give the besom to Fomká Bikbáev, and only came to himself through having cold water poured over him. There is no denying it; all his ways are majestic⸺ And I was told that in the bath he showed his Tsar’s signs upon his breast: on one side a two-headed eagle as large as a five-kopek piece, and on the other his own likeness.”
I did not consider it necessary to contradict the Cossack’s statement, and I accompanied him to the Commandant’s house, trying to imagine beforehand what kind of a reception I should meet with from Pugachév, and endeavouring to guess how it would end. The reader will easily understand that I did not by any means feel easy within myself.
It was beginning to get dark when I reached the Commandant’s house. The gibbet, with its victims, loomed black and terrible before me. The body of the poor Commandant’s wife still lay at the bottom of the steps, near which two Cossacks stood on guard. The Cossack who accompanied me went in to announce me, and, returning almost immediately, conducted me into the room where, the evening before, I had taken a tender farewell of Maria Ivánovna. An unusual spectacle presented itself to my gaze. At a table, covered with a cloth and loaded with bottles and glasses, sat Pugachév and some half a score of Cossack chiefs, in coloured caps and shirts, heated with wine, with flushed faces and flashing eyes. I did not see among them Shvabrín and his fellow traitor, the orderly.
“Ah! your Excellency!” said Pugachév, seeing me. “Welcome; honour to you and a place at our banquet.”
The guests moved closer together. I sat down silently at the end of the table. My neighbour, a young Cossack, tall and handsome, poured out for me a glass of wine, which, however, I did not touch. I began to observe the company with curiosity. Pugachév occupied the seat of honour, his elbows resting on the table, and his broad fist propped under his black beard. His features, regular and sufficiently agreeable, had nothing fierce about them. He frequently turned to speak to a man of about fifty years of age, addressing him sometimes as Count, sometimes as Timoféich, sometimes as uncle. All those present treated each other as comrades, and did not show any particular respect for their leader. The conversation was upon the revolt, and of their future operations. Each one boasted of what he had done, expressed his opinion, and fearlessly contradicted Pugachév. And in this strange council of war it was resolved to march upon Orenbúrg; a bold movement, and which was to be very nearly crowned with success. The march was fixed for the following day.
“Now, lads,” said Pugachév, “before we retire to rest, let us have my favourite song. Chumakóv, begin!”
My neighbour sang, in a shrill voice, the following melancholy peasant’s song, and all joined in the chorus:
“Stir not, mother, green forest of oak, Disturb me not in my meditation; For to-morrow before the court I must go, Before the stern judge, before the Tsar himself. The great Lord Tsar will begin to question me: ‘Tell me, young man, tell me, thou peasant’s son, With whom have you stolen, with whom have you robbed? Did you have many companions with you?’ ‘I will tell you, true-believing Tsar, The whole truth I will confess to you. My companions were four in number: My first companion was the dark night, My second companion was a steel knife, My third companion was my good horse, My fourth companion was my taut bow, My messengers were my tempered arrows.’ Then speaks my hope, the true-believing Tsar: ‘Well done, my lad, brave peasant’s son; You knew how to steal, you knew how to reply: Therefore, my lad, I will make you a present Of a very high structure in the midst of a field— Of two upright posts with a cross-beam above.’”
It is impossible to describe the effect produced upon me by this popular gallows song, trolled out by men destined for the gallows. Their ferocious countenances, their sonorous voices, and the melancholy expression which they imparted to the words, which in themselves were not very expressive, filled me with a sort of poetical terror.
The guests drank another glass, then rose from the table and took leave of Pugachév.
I wanted to follow them, but Pugachév said to me:
“Sit down; I want to speak to you.”
We remained face to face.
For some moments we both continued silent. Pugachév looked at me fixedly, every now and then winking his left eye with a curious expression of craftiness and drollery. At last he burst out laughing, and with such unfeigned merriment that I, too, looking at him, began to laugh, without knowing why.
“Well, your lordship,” he said to me, “confess now, you were in a terrible fright when my fellows put the rope round your neck. I do not believe that the sky appeared bigger than a sheepskin to you just then⸺ You would have been strung up to the crossbeam if it had not been for your servant. I knew the old fellow at once. Well, would your lordship have thought that the man who conducted you to the inn was the great Tsar himself?”
Here he assumed an air of mystery and importance.
“You have been guilty of a serious offence against me,” continued he, “but I pardoned you on account of your virtue, and because you rendered me a service when I was compelled to hide myself from my enemies. But you will see something very different presently! You will see how I will reward you when I enter into possession of my kingdom! Will you promise to serve me with zeal?”
The rascal’s question, and his insolence, appeared to me so amusing that I could not help smiling.